Then Stirs the Feeling Infinite
by SweetNothingness
Summary: What happened if Christine had been slightly more lucid in the events of Phantom? What if she'd thought it through? My take on how it should have gone.
1. Prologue

**Hello ladies and gentlebugs.**

**I wrote a oneshot, and it was requested that it be made into a full length story. I am only too happy to oblige. **

**Please note, the characters do not belong to me, I'm simply playing with them. I will be keeping close to canon and drifting far away from it, as I please. No expectations!**

_Her eyes were shadowed, hollow, fluttering like a pulse as she flitted through nightmares, dark half moons of eyelashes against flushed cheeks. She was nothing more than a skinny child, ten years old at most, body blunt and nondescript beneath the lace ruffles of her borrowed night-gown. The moonlight cut across her bed, severing her face from the blackness of her body as her lips and cheeks were bathed in light. Even in sleep, flushed and scared, twisting in sheets that snaked around bony ankles and wrists, she was remarkable. There was nothing particular in her appearance. Although pretty, he had seen many pretty women and girls before. It wasn't even in her vulnerability, that was another area he knew particularly well._

_It was in her susceptibility. _

_He sat by her bedside, night after night, cloaked in darkness as he stroked sweaty curls from her forehead and ran soothing fingers across her tensed neck. She would moan against the night, shrieks in an alternate reality as death and despair and whatever else that plagued her childish fantasies reared their ugly head in her subconscious. He would sing to her; only that. He would hum tunes he had composed, repeating the words until he was sure she would mouth along with him had he offered her the change. He sang of angels and masks, of desire and death. He sang softly when she slept shallowly and louder when she was deep in dream. _

_Soon, she began to welcome him. She did not know it. When he was near she would quiet and sleep easily. When he retracted his hand from her face she would cry out in despair. When he sang she would mumble the words with him. In her prayers she would thank God for the angel of music that had been sent to protect her, somehow foggily remembering his comfort even through the haze of wakefulness. _

_Her susceptibility was no longer her greatest attraction._

_Never had he been needed._


	2. 1) Shake the Saintship

_**Okay, okay. If you're going to review as a guest please leave an email if you want a reply; I can't answer questions if I can't reply! This is going to be a very strange mishmash of canon and non canon. Let's go.**_

Notes rippled through the air as effortlessly as dye through water, fanning and dancing of their own accord. Careless, simple, chestnut hair a curly mop of a bun on the top of her head she swung in an imitation of a ballet, stocking-clad feet lazily spinning on the slats of the wooden floor. The low folk tune was Irish, she supposed.

She could hear it. Misty mountains she had never seen, druids with their mouths stained bitter with the juice of mistletoe, cold chalked streams and the hang of magic in the air, she wove her song like a spell of imagery which layered like a veil over her eyes. Fluting, rippling. She was unconscious of her own music, listening instead to the pictures which wavered in her mind as clear as a painting. Art painted with sound. Images with voice.

"Christine." A voice behind her was sharp. She broke off, watching the paintings waver, faint, fall. A sigh. She turned her head to find Madame Giry watching her with a strange expression on her stern face, fingers plucking unusually at the impeccable black front of her skirts. Her black hair was pulled severely from a tartly pretty face full of cheekbone and angle, lips thinned by time but eyes luminous and trained to stand out from the stage. These eyes were fixed on Christine unerringly, chips of liquid ice which warmed marginally at lighting on her adopted daughter. "You missed ballet practice."

Christine pursed her lips and uttered a curse in pretty, parlour-room French as loudly as she dared. She was prepared for practice, she had simply forgotten to attend. Her ballet slippers were laced up her calves, the standard pale ballet skirt was tied tight about her waist, the corset dipping low enough to allow easy breathing through exertion without scandal. She thought of offering an excuse, but she had none. Madame Giry noted the stricken expression on her face and softened, drawing one hand towards the younger girl with a maternal grace which might have surprised those who had not seen her with her two children. Sure enough, Meg was at her elbow, blue eyes wide and sunny with exercise as she panted, wiping tendrils of sweat dusted blond hair from her forehead.

"You're lucky." She murmured when her mother's attention was drawn elsewhere, "she nearly killed us, today."

Christine smiled despite herself, hiding her mirth with a kiss on her sisters cheek.

"Where did you hear that song?"

"I don't know _maman_, I must have picked it up from someone whistling it."

Madame Giry fixed Christine with a look which had frozen many a director, many a man, many an actor. It was a look charged with I-don't-know-what, the frosty glare of someone who _knows._ Precisely what she knew, Christine could not guess. She turned her face away, marginally, towards the stage. The three women were in the wings of the Paris opera, in one of many forgotten corners left dusty with varnish and abandoned props. A faded velvet cloth covered several box-shaped things which they seated themselves upon. If she stared very hard she could just make out Carlotta's wavered form through the gauze of the first curtain, her plump body squeezed into a corset which looked ready to pop. Piangi's skinny form beside her was skeletal, as ridiculous as a scrawny hen plucking around the fattest cawing rooster.

"Our Prima Donna must lose some weight." Meg whispered into the silence broken by the shrieks of Carlotta on stage. Christine shot her an amused glance.

"Or her voice."

"Or her husband." Madame Giry added to their light banter, before rearranging her face back into one of the stern ballet mistress. "Onto stage, I want twelve perfect plié's."

Meg darted away before she was forced to share in Christine's punishment, leaving her to slide in behind Carlotta, Piangi, and the assorted other practioners so as to satisfy Madame Giry's thirst for extremities.

The Irish song fluttered through her mind again like butter. She stopped herself from singing, content instead to play it in her head like a record as she stretched and bent to its soulful tune, Carlotta's shrieking like a long-forgotten dream.

_**CDECDE..**_

"Three; Jean, Alice and Eduard."

"Two girls?"

"And a boy."

"Why three?"

"A good number."

"Oh."

The girl's knees were touching as they lay on their sides, watching the shadows of the night shift on the other's face, feet drawn up to stave off the chill which crawled into the covers with them. Meg's light hair was in two clean braids, one on either side of a pretty face. Christine's was loose, a heavy pillow in its own right. Their eyes were vague and heavy with possibilities of the future, fingers tracing invisible children's foreheads.

"You?"

"A girl. Angela."

"Angela?"

"It means 'angel.'"

"Oh." Meg paused, "after your angel of music?"

"That's right."

They smiled at each other in perfect understanding; an understanding impossible except to girls who have spent their childhood and teenage years confessing to one another. Meg's nose dropped imperceptivity as fought sleep which was not to be fought. Christine watched her succumb, perversely intrigued in watching her friend in such a vulnerable state. She considered her own body, feeling the tugs of sleep but without the security that she would soon be pulled under. It eluded her yet.

With a sigh she leaned onto one elbow to blow out the candle by her bed, shutting her eyes immediately as darkness flooded the room, and pulling her sheets high over her head.

It wasn't long before she was singing.

The room was empty, as it had been for so long.

And yet she still sang into silence.

The next morning dawned cold and with a clarity of crystal under moonbeams. When Christine stretched out a hand the bed was empty, but for the sharp crackle of paper.

_Bonjour, Christie,_

_ Maman woke me early. Lefevre is expecting important guests._

_ See you at dance at 11._

_ M._

The paper dropped from her fingers as uninterestedly as she had picked it up, eyes already alert from her sleep. She pushed the covers away from herself, a sway in her step as she twirled across the floorboards do the piece of silver nailed to the wall. Meg had left a cream jug of lukewarm water on the table, a butter-yellow flower floating on its surface. She buried her nose in it absent-mindedly, toes tapping erratically to a rhythm she couldn't quite capture.

One finger twirled her hair as she vaguely looked at her reflection, lips fluttering unconsciously as she tried to puzzle out the tangle of notes in her head. She was under no illusions that it was of her own creation, but it was not a tune she could ask a musician to play for her if she could not even present its bare bones.

But no, it slipped away from her like smoke through grasping fingers with the morning like an elusive dream.

Christine set to pinning her hair from her neck in a chignon, eyes still vague as she twisted and plaited away the mass of chestnut. The gold corset was difficult to lace without help, too tight and cinching her waist in to painful proportions. The red gauzy skirt brushed her knees.

With short breaths, she checked the time and breezed from the small room, a shawl around her shoulders against the Parisian chill, mind still elsewhere, soaring mountains and drifting like snow. As she walked, more and more people brushed by her, the crowds of stage hands, dancers, actors, growing like weeds as she slid between them, hands holding her shawl and eyes high above their heads. A greeting, two, three. She returned their smiles with her own, not seeing them when they shook their heads amusedly at silly Christine Daae with her head in the clouds, soft amiability in their expressions.

It was a buzz, a hubbub of activity. There was nothing like backstage before the dress rehearsal.

Where the smell of varnish and oil-based make up was strongest, she allowed herself to fall back to earth with a resounding thump, blinking at the dark wood of her surroundings in the wings before stepping out to the empty theatre as she had done a thousand times before.

"Here she is! _Ladies_, in your _lines, _monsieur Lefevre will be here momentarily so you haven't a moment to stretch. Quickly now, quickly!" Madame Giry clapped her hands sharply, causing the row of eight to bend immediately in a well rehearsed stretch of the legs. From her vantage point with her elbows lightly touching the boards of the stage, she could see Carlotta from between her legs, fussing desperately with her hair as she led Piangi in vocal exercises. A burst of amusement fizzed in her throat like champagne, causing her to drop her face to hide her giggle at the look of frazzlement on the prima donna's face. Meg, to her left, caught her eye and winked quickly.

"They're here!" A voice shrieked from somewhere in front of them, but suddenly Christine was blinded as lights aimed at their faces, Carlotta a beaming presence before them all.

She shrieked, butchering the first few lines of Hannibal despite the beauty of the spectacle surrounding her. Christine followed the other dancers, bending into positions practiced thousands of times, unaware of her audience than if it had been a whole crowd or merely a mouse; indifferent. Her mind was swimming, dizzy. What was wrong with her this morning?

White noise pressed behind her eyes as she danced, eyes shutting at intervals to try and relax. Something, someone, something was there.

"Stop!" A voice beyond the lights shrieked, cutting them off mid-song, "Monsieur Lefevre wants to say a few words!"

The lights shuttered out as quickly as they had appeared, and Christine had to steady herself against the dancer beside her at the sudden swoop of vertigo. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her too-tight corset cut off her breathing.Lefevre was speaking; something about retirement. She couldn't concentrate, she was blinking, trying to steady herself. And then there was movement, two men, a flash of a young man who looked familiar. And then they were preparing to sing again. Carlotta squawked her opening line. Pressure built up behind her eyes, her knees too jellied to move as dancers swarmed past her like a pent up dam, trying to conceal her from the prying eyes of the directors whose eyes would soon find the prone dancer—

_CRASH. _Christine dropped to her knees, staring ahead blankly and breathing fast in direct contrast to the rest of the crew who swarmed away, shrieking, at the piece of the stage which had fallen inwards, missing Carlotta by mere inches. The world swam into focus, snapping like elastic.

"These things do happen, Carlotta!" One of the newcomers rushed onto the stage, laying a hand on her had, his face a puce colour of nervousness.

"These things do _happen?" _Carlotta shrieked in his face, her tone not dissimilar to her singing voice. Christine tuned out her voice quickly in a practiced move which removed herself from a headache for the next few days. She watched as if from a muffled cloud as Carlotta poked him in the chest, her wig quivering with indignation. Her soft Irish lullaby played in her mind as she watched, absently.

Then, something happened.

Madame Giry was gesturing to her, her eye satisfied, if slightly wild. The word _phantom _drifted on the air, whispered from ear to ear, lipstick smudging on rouged cheeks. A thrill ran through Christine's stomach, a jolt of liveliness unusual for the sedate girl. She welcomed it, eyes fastening on those of her adoptive mother.

"Christine can sing it," She insisted, fingers clasping the empty air, smile somewhat strained. "She's had a _wonderful _teacher."

Christine didn't know what she was talking about. Her mind was suddenly white with panic.

"No—no, I can't I—"

A hand pushed her sharply between the shoulder blades, shooting her forward into the limelight as a hundred pairs of eyes bored into her.

"What is your teacher's name?" The kindlier of the two men asked, the other merely irritated.

"I don't know-" Christine cast a beseeching glance in Madame Giry's direction, who simply nodded. Everyone stopped, silence echoing around the room as they waited, and she realized with a sudden horror that they wanted her to sing, here and now.

"This is doing nothing for my nerves." The more irritable man muttered to his companion as the silence stretched on.

"Hush, she's very _pretty."_

Christine swallowed bile, her heart palpitating desperately. A croak escaped from her mouth before she took a deep breath, and allowed the first few strains of a Hannibal song escape her lips.

_Think of me…_

_Think of me…_

_His eyes darted down, where before they were irritated, sickened by the caliber of his opera, they were wide. The child, her hair effortlessly thrown back from her face, her eyes towards the sky, expression stoic, was singing. _


	3. 2) The Fatal gift of Beauty

_**This is a lot more fun than I thought it would be… And I'm determined to finish. Thus far it's very canon- orientated, I might shake things up soon.**_

_Think of me…_

The room was silence, utterly hushed, as her voice soared. Quiet. Heart-breaking and wistful as the entire theatre brushed dust tears from their eyes. The girl was small, waif-like under lights, as though the lightest exhalation could send her fluttering her into the wings. She was somewhat uneducated in her stage stance, reflecting Carlotta in the hand clasped at her abdomen, but with a lack of confidence that made her endearing despite the self-assurance on her upturned face.

When she finished her song, the opera house exploded into applause as fleeting as butterflies and as thunderous as a storm. She curtseyed in a deep, ballerina dip, neck straight and hand outflung. The dancers around her scattered, unseen as the audience fixed glistening eyes on Christine, brushing her white corset and full skirts to the lushness of her curled hair in the shallow glance of the entertained. Women sighed at the glitters of gold at her throat and ears, forgetting that they were gilt and glue, the men sighed at her lush waist and breasts, forgetting she was high, high on stage and held cinched by wire, forgetting she was really just a child of nineteen.

The roses and coins continued to fall in a storm of wealth as she drifted off of the stage. If they had paused in their screams of adoration they would have heard the squeals of the dancers as they surrounded Christine with delight, hugs and slaps on the bag resounding around the wings. She giggled in delight as Madame Giry drew her into an embrace, whispering congratulations and encouragement in her dizzy ears.

"Christine Daae." One member of the audience said, as though a rock had struck his temple.

"Pardon?" Phillipe, his companion, turned his head to fix the young man with a look of surprise. "Raoul are you quite alright?"

Raoul found himself unable to reply, his eyes fixed on the stage, the burning impression of the girl in white against the black background startling on his retinas. He was almost unable to compare the luscious young woman on the stage with the nine year old of his memories, with stringy, rain stained hair dripping to her skinny hips, knees skinned and tanned beneath ragged skirts. She had followed him around like a desperate puppy, begging him for stories and tricks in all his maturity of twelve and, at a loss for any other childish company, had complied in return for the promise that she would take him to hear music from her fathers violin.

"Was she not remarkable?" He managed to choke out at last, wrestling his features under control as he glanced sideways at Phillipe.

"Quite beautiful." He replied, somewhat confused at the animation in his friend's expression. Raoul got jerkily to his feet, hands clenched.

"I think I will go backstage." He said, almost absently, reaching down to shake his hand. Phillipe watched him go, remaining in his seat in the box, a tug of amusement flicking across his lips. Lust, nothing more, he supposed.

Raoul pushed his way through the crowds, catching the eye of one of the managers who immediately leapt forward to offer his assistance. Within a moment he found himself effectively whisked backstage, with much aplomb and apologetic 'sir's.'

"Why is it you wish to come backstage?" The manager- curse what was his name!- asked as he shouldered dancers aside.

"I wish to meet mademoiselle Daae, alone."

"Oh." He shot the young count a rakish glance, "I see."

Raoul did not bother to correct his obvious assumption, but rather followed in silence, his hat under his arm, his heart thumping.

_**CDECDECDECDE**_

Christine couldn't take her eyes off of her own reflection. She didn't recognize herself. Who was this girl, this girl in Carlotta's garb with hair pulled into an elaborate pattern as unlike her usual style as the sun from the moon? Her eyes were fever bright from the music, cheeks flushed. She wasn't herself. She looked much too… polished. Without even thinking or mourning, she reached up to twist her hair down into its normal wild mess.

Another face appeared in the mirror, smile bright and cornflower blue eyes vibrant in the darkness of the little room.

"Christine, you were astonishing!" Meg reached down to help her adopted sister undo her hair, acutely aware of her discomfort. She grinned up at her, hands stretched out to hold hers, as they smirked at one another like conspiring children.

"Meg," she kissed her cheek spontaneously, irrevocably happy for one second.

"I thank my angel with everything I have for this."

Meg nodded silently, eyes glittering at her friend's happiness. Religious devotion was common among show folk in Paris, it was not a strange concept to have a patron god. And she knew all about Christine's.

"Your father would be proud, _cherie._"

A beat of silence of wistfulness. Meg shook herself and fingered a flower she had clasped in one hand, indecision tearing herself apart before she consented to reach forward and rest it, delicately, on the vanity before Christine. It was a beautiful thing, a rose, the deep red of love, blood, lust. Its velvet petals were cups of scent, nearly closed in bud, slightly curtseying into a flicked hem at the break. A single thin black ribbon was tied around it in a perfect slipknot, like a noose.

"_Maman _asked that I give you this, and tell you that _he _is happy with you." She whispered into the silence. Their eyes were fastened on it, wondering at the darkness of the red. Meg knew it came from being grown underground.

"Thank you." Christine said simply, not asking of whom she spoke. Meg was relieved. She herself was unsure.

"I'll leave you to your thoughts. I promised to reply to letters." With a final smile, kiss, and a look around at the flowers garlanding the dressing room Christine now commanded, she slipped out into the wings.

The next knock on the door came as a surprise. After Meg there was no one else who would think to visit. Before she could look up from the rose twirling between her fingers, the candles dancing in its veins and glimmering under her eyelids, the door was open and someone was staring at her. She flicked her eyes to the door to find an unfamiliar gentleman, and smiled self-consciously. He was gazing at her, eyes flicking from face to breasts in a way that made her skin itch.

"Sir-" She began to protest.

"Little Lottie."

She quieted, eyes widening. She stood quickly, rose carefully placed on the table, staring at the man.

"Raoul!" She smiled with sudden pleasure, trying to ignore the incredulous looks he still shot beneath her neck.

"Christine." He breathed, depositing a huge, expensive bouquet on top of the sinuous rose as he leapt towards her, much too close. They were frothy, pink. Pretty. Lots of leaves. "You sang like an angel. How you've changed! And for the better!"

Christine smiled uncomfortably, blurting out the first thing that popped into her head. He was gazing at her as though he had an epiphany, his lingering on the make up, the too-big dress. Her polish.

"My father died, Raoul."

"I heard."

"The angel of music-"

"No doubt of that," Raoul interrupted, and glanced at the clock distractedly, then back at her, "But for now, let me take you to supper."

"I can't-"

"I'll order a carriage, be ready in two minutes. It's good to see you." He brushed from the room, ignoring her protests, without so much as a greeting embrace with the air of someone not used to being denied. Christine watched him go, feeling strangely disconsolate. Nothing had changed from when they had been children, only now instead of age separating them, it was wealth and class. "No." She whispered under her breath. Much too brief. They weren't the same children.

With a curse she resolved to do as she pleased, and when she didn't emerge in his carriage Raoul would leave. She untied her dress, with quick fingers, hair heavy and oppressive against her neck. When she was free, her shift cool against her skin, she slid into a dressing robe and returned to the vanity, eyes disdainful on the flowers. It was one of the bouquets which could be bought at the door. The sickly scent of freesias buzzed through the air like wasps, dizzying. She heaped them into her arms and shoved them underneath another pile of gifts.

The rose was not damaged. She sighed in relief, stroking its petals as though it were a vulnerable animal. With sudden determination she seized a perfume bottle and poured it away without glancing at the label, drawing water from the washing basin to rest the stem within. It glistened against her mirror, dancing in candlelight.

Christine rested her chin in one open palm, eyes drifting, mind full of the music. She hummed, a tune she barely knew, which drifted on her dreams.

"Masquerade.." she whispered, fingers sketching patterns on the table top. "Hide your face and the world will never find you."

She wiped her make up away with slow fingers, the irony of the act pricking her amusement. When her face was clean she felt purer.

"Masquerade…" She mumbled.

_"Look around, there's another face behind you." _

That voice.

She stopped breathing.

Silence but for him.

His voice was so familiar. It was perfectly imperfect. Rough with feeling and intimate as a whisper beneath bedcovers. She didn't turn, but every atom of her being wanted her to. She was frozen.

"The insolent boy," He murmured behind her, "Your suitor's a fool."

"I-"

"Hush." A hand touched the nape of her neck, briefly, before drawing away. She stared at the mirror, watching the reflection of the shade behind her. The candles were extinguished. When did that happen? She couldn't see his face. She started to turn but his hands were suddenly on her waist, holding her still, his face tilting past hers in the mirror so they were side by side. She stared at him, her heart thrumming like a hummingbird, a mummers farce of fear when all she wanted was to throw herself in a giggling hysteria on the phantom. The ghost of fear. The shade of mystery. Because she knew him.

"I'm your angel." He whispered, his lips brushing her ear. She could only nod.

"I know." She choked, her hands twisting as she watched his masked face. His eyes were dark, warm in the cold slit of white as they glowed on her face.

"Bravo." He stepped back, allowing her to turn, so they were facing one another. The bare air between them gaped, a yawn of emptiness as they surveyed each other, eyes burning for the first time in ten years. "Christine_._"

She shivered at her name, eyes desperately wide.

Without another word, he reached past her, their bodies brushing from knee to chests as he tugged at something behind her. Without turning he pushed gently against her to have her walk backwards. Her back hit cold wall, pressed against him, her breathing coming fast enough that she felt faint. His fingers brushed her jaw, eyes boring into hers, black in the darkness.

"In all the years I've known you I've never seen your eyes," He whispered, "I would have thought that they'd be brown."

"You've been inside my mind." She breathed in sharply, stabs of dizziness warring with her determination to witness all that could be.

"I can assure you, you've been inside mine."

Without another word he turned, his hand encasing hers, and began to walk downwards.

Something in her mind screamed at her to run, to take flight before she got herself into a mess. She fought herself, desperate to run, desperate to continue. Her hand was warm in his, while the air was cold. The tunnel sloped downwards into the cellars beneath the opera.

With all the strength left in her body she pulled away.

The Phantom turned in shock, his eyes wide behind his mask and cloak slackening from his shoulders as he whirled around to stare at her.

"What's your name?"

He paused, his breath sharp and puffing in the air before his mouth pursed in thought. He seemed incredulous at the innocuous question.

"Why?"

"I can hardly call you 'angel' or 'voice.'"

His gaze was suddenly hard as granite, and equally as mocking.

"Am I not your angel of music? Do angels have names?"

"Lucifer certainly does." Christine smiled, softening any insult behind the three syllables. The Phantom eyed her, with a harsh bark of laughter, his arms crossed over a black-clad chest. He watched her, expression unreadable.

"Phantom will do for now, mademoiselle Daae."

Christine remained silent, watching the tension rise in his throat and shoulders. He would not offer his name until she had gained his trust and vice versa, that much was clear. She suppressed a jolt of fear and slipped past him, so that they could walk side by side, her head high and jerking nervous glances in his direction. Concealed by shadow she could scarcely see him, aware of his presence only by the warmth of another body.

And in her head…

Music.

Music that never ended, a primal beat that repeated and swirled like a dream.

"In dreams you sang to me." She whispered when they had walked in silence for long enough. He didn't reply, but she could tell by the inclination of his head that he had heard. She caught her breath, misty memory doing nothing to place the familiarity. "The Phantom of the opera is there, inside my mind." She added in a soft tune, tone sad, one lock of hair wrapped around her finger. At the sound of her voice raised, even imperceptivity, in song, he shot her a charged look.

And then, a boat. She hadn't even been aware there was a body of water beneath her home, but silently allowed him to lift her into the boat, following with a lantern carefully placed behind her. The chill of the air intensified, drawing shivers from her. She hadn't dressed for trekking around the cellars. A heavy material fell about her shoulders, quick fingers clasping the cloak on her collar bones before she could turn in shock.

He towered over her, face half in shadow, half masked, daring her to comment on his actions. She drew the cloak closer, her mouth resolutely shut, the musky scents of rain and candlewax surrounding her like an expensive perfume, chasing away any trace of freesias with relief. Music. She could still hear music.

She was dizzy; heady insensibility surrounded her in exquisite pain.

"Sing for me." He murmured, quietly, a question more than a demand. Christine held herself very still. She couldn't possibly compare. The specter of music itself, the embodiment of sound who had taught her everything. On a lake, no less. In pitch darkness.

It was the darkness that lent her courage. Her senses were heightened, she could feel his tension, his awareness. He couldn't see her, he could only hear her. She was blameless before the sightless eyes of night. And yet no words came to her. Rather than a ballad, or anything taught to her, anything schooled, a pure wave of sound left her throat, a song in itself like a harp played by summer breeze. His satisfaction behind her was as evident as though her had demanded she sing again, and so she complied, her head thrown back, serenading the water as it lapped against the wood of the boat she rocked in.

Perhaps he joined her, or perhaps it was only the faintest brush against her mind. A gentle stroke which tasted of his voice. Her eyes were shut against the darkness, unsure of whether they were shut in fear or reverence.

And then light. Painfully, candlelight, from every side, a blaze of fire and heat that suppressed any cool clarity in Christine's mind. With that fire, her skin became sensitive to every brush of hair, her eyes were heated, her fingers quick as they loosened the cape from her throat. She leapt from the boat, her skirts held high in one hand, its hem dipping in the greenish waters of the lake. She spun, breathing fast, to face her ghost.

His footsteps were silent on the stone floor, his eyes firm on hers, lips twisted into a firm smile under his mask. It was black, she noticed, cropped above his nose and elegantly curling around his case. His hair was unruly above it, dark and curled smoothed back from his face carefully. His face was unreachable. He watched her without altering his expression.

Her breathing quickened as his eyes raked her from head to toe, softening as they caught her stricken expression.

"Relax." He whispered, taking a step forward to rest a thumb on her lower lip.


	4. 3) Stands Upon this Place of Skulls

_**Good day to you lovely popsicles. Enjoy.**_

The softness of blankets rubbed her cheeks dry as she tossed in confusion, her eyes fluttering open to candlelight. Christine shuddered at the scent that surrounded her; not from disgust, not even from pleasure, but from sheer psychological disturbance. It was a smell she had known for years without knowing that she knew it. It was smoke and roses. Candlewax and salt.

When she found the energy to sit up, she found herself in an unfamiliar bed. It was huge, far bigger than any bed she had seen, with covers and pillows to make a sheik's den lovingly plumped and comfortable. She was directly in the middle, surrounded by a smooth desert of sheets. An island in a white sea, lonely, alone. Christine looked around, confused.

"I remember…" She whispered under her breath, one hand going up to clutch her head as she fell back into the pillows. There was mist. Swirling mist on a vast, glassy lake. She gathered the courage to pull herself out of the bed, terrified by her situation, her feet silent on the stone floor as she slipped along the wall to peek around the edge. There were candles all around. On the lake, which stretched dizzyingly into the distance, there was a boat.

That ripped her back hours, and her memory was once again vivid. In the boat there had been a man. _The Phantom. _Her angel. _Him._

Where was he? Christine wasn't sure whether she should be giddy to be in the lair of her lifelong hero and guide, or appalled at being coerced into spending the night underground in a strange man's home. Really, she did not know him. He was a shadowed figure in a mask, an anonymity, a question mark.

A shadow moved ahead of her, silhouetted against the candlelight.

"Who's that?" She snapped, fear making her sharp. She squinted against the mist, the cloudy light cast by the melting candles, to see him. His back was to her, fingers resting on piano keys, face looking over his shoulder to watch her where she stood shrouded in shadow. His eyes were hot, dark against his pale face as she stepped closer. Music flowed from the instrument without his even looking, beautiful. She skirted the lake carefully, climbing the stones which were thrown haphazardly about the cavern. Tapestries softened the walls, glittering red and gold in the sweet light, the tune to a song she used to sing when she was younger echoing and bouncing off of perfect acoustics.

He turned back to the music, but she could see the rigid line of his shoulders beneath his shirt, the knotted muscles in his neck as he waited to see what she would do. Carefully, as though to avoid scaring an animal, for his sake or hers she was unsure, Christine tiptoed towards him until her hands were rested on his shoulders, her front pressed into his back. His skin was warm beneath the thin material, and yet he shivered at her touch.

Carefully, deliberately, she traced the shape of the bare side of his face with one soft fingertip, looking at the music book propped in front of him, her heart contracting when he tilted his head back into her embrace with his eyes closed, entirely succumbing to her whim. His taut face entirely relaxed.

"What's your name?" She whispered, brokenly, bending to until her lips were a mere hair breadth from his forehead. He broke off his song, his hands coming up to cup hers.

"Erik." Her murmured, his voice low and collected, almost polite, but strained.

"Erik." She whispered, her fingers stroking lower, over his chest as she leaned into him, hyponotised by his familiarity despite never having touched him before. His breath quickened against her neck as she leant forward, confusion and touch befuddling her mind. "Erik; why do you wear a mask?"

Before she had finished the question, her fingers quickly darted to his mask, ripping it away and holding it before her back before he could comprehend her question. Suddenly he was on his feet, taller than she had remembered, and terrifying. Even with one hand clasped to his face he found the strength to throw her away from himself, heavily, casting her away in a pure anger that shook her to the core. His eyes burned with hatred, a hatred unparalleled, as he spat down at her. Christine caught her breath with pain, the mask clasped to her chest as he whirled like a ghost towards her.

"_Damn _you!" He swore, kicking at a candle that fell, fell, far down into the lake with a barely conceivable splash. "You little lying _Delilah. _You're like _everyone else." _He turned away from her, his hand still clasped over his face, scratching as though he wanted to tear the skin from his bones. "Damn you! _Curse you._"

The candlelight extinguished slowly as he raved, kicking out at whatever he could reach but her, determinately keeping his eyes from her, humiliation evident in his every movement. Even from her vantage point at his feet, bent almost in supplication, she couldn't find it in herself to be scared. Thrills of fear darted at his every turn, but all she could feel was pity for the man whose embarrassment had forced him into violence to hide his face. He turned to see her, lying on her side, the candlelight cupping her every curve as intimately as a lover with a beauty that mocked him as much as it pleased him, pity on her every feature.

Anger. He advanced on her, watching her shrink back, the mask against her chest and her blue eyes wide as they skittered from his face.

"Can you even dare to look." He whispered, taking a peverse pleasure from watching her eyes widen in fear and denial. She was like everyone else. No one could surprise him.

"I didn't think you were— human." Christine whispered, her lips forming a small O of surprise, knees drawing to her chest as she pushed herself into a seating position. There was a small silence.

The Phantom sighed heavily and sank to the ground next to her, face dipped and hand firmly over his face.

"I'm not an angel, Christine." He whispered, his tone broken. "I'm just-"

He broke off, his eyes fixed on the mask clasped to her chest. Christine saw the hunger, the deep pain she could not comprehend, and silently held her hand out for him to retrieve his cover. He slipped it onto his face silently, eyes fixed on hers, mouth pursed in bitterness and receding anger.

"I apologise, sir. I didn't know." Christine's voice was low and cordial, polite where before she was dazed, clear where before she was befuddled by his very presence.

"I don't suppose you did." The Phantom heaved a sigh, pulling his lean body into a crossed leg position and drawing a slim metal box from his jacket pocket. He slipped a cigarette free with long fingers, holding the end to one of his many candles until it glowed smouldering orange, before placing it between tension-bitten lips absent-mindedly. An elegant curl of smoke escaped with his breath, his eyes a hazy grey of the same colour. Christine watched, fascinated. Never before had a man smoked in her presence, and when she had seen them it was always the fat stink of cigars. She had smelled that bitter aroma on Raoul. He glanced at her to find her eyes fastened on his mouth and jolted in surprise. "Would you like one?"

"If I could." Christine said as sedately as she could, her eyes wide with curiosity. The Phantom watched the candlelight burn in their depths, lighting her eyes to a cloudlessly dark blue, taking on last mouthful of smoke before passing it to her.

"What do I do?" She asked, her slim fingers wrapping around the cylinder, eyelashes low as she stared at it.

"Put it in your mouth," He said gently, half uninterestedly, as though playing with the child was one of his many tasks for the day, "take in a mouthful of smoke. Blow it out."

"And that's it?" With one raised eyebrow, she experimentally sucked on it. Her eyes immediately watered and she fell to coughing, her creamy skin flushing pink and blotching as her lungs constricted. "What on earth is the point in that?"

"It's a pastime one can undertake in utter solitude. It is not an activity for two." He stubbed the cigarette out on the stone beside him, trying to ignore the perfect pink circle of Christine's lipstick on the end. A kiss on a means of death, almost poetic.

The girl and her ghost sat cross legged, facing one another, in a cavern metres below ground, surrounded by dripping candles and as weary as a pair of tomcats just as they were as comfortable as lifelong lovers.

"What's that song you were singing?" He murmured into the silence, leaning on one arm in a pose that was oddly childish for the symbol of fear in the opera. This man was revered, paid to keep away, feared and had stories told of him. Women screamed when people mentioned his name, men went white. Yet here he was, a curious child smelling of cigarette smoke and roses, cold faced and warm eyed.

"_Angel of Music_." She sang promptly, her eyes watching his face as it relaxed infinitely at the sound of her voice. To have such power. "Is it not yours?"

"No."

"Which ones are?"

"All the others." He said it without a trace of self -satisfaction, rather stating a simple fact. She didn't ask how. He still didn't accept he was altogether human.

"I should get you back." The Phantom whispered, eventually, his eyes dark and suddenly unreadable. Christine shook her head to clear it and lowered her eyes to where his hands tapped a beat on the floor unconsciously. He stood, when she didn't offer a reaction, turning his back on her without offering her a hand to her feet.

Christine watched his receding back as he moved around his lair as comfortably as someone moves around a living room. He threw his cloak about his shoulders, smoothed his hair back and set his face into cold disdain, seeming to grow a few inches by sheer will. Without break he walked down to the jetty where the boat was tied up and stepped onto the back.

"Come." He called harshly, the echo of his voice reverberating down her spine. She flinched and followed, obediently.

_**CDECDECDECDECDECDECDECDECDEC DECDECDE**_

The days passed in a haze. Christine received side-long glances as her expression was even more vague than usual, her eyes high and her mouth quivering with songs they had never heard. At slight noises her head would whip around, eyes blazing, cheeks flushing, only to swivel back with disappointment, pale and drained.

_It's love,_ people said knowingly, their concentration on the young count whom they knew was visiting the young lady with pink flowers and promises. His gloves were pristine white, his hair perfectly clean. His smile was impeccable and his behaviour proper. A good match, they nodded, smiling behind their hands when he called her 'Little Lottie.'

A good match.

_**AN: Million, while I thank you for your valuable criticism, any specifics would be very helpful if you think any alterations are pressing! To all my other lovely reviewers, you're all beautiful people and I love you.**_


	5. 4) Can Tyrants but by Tyrants Be

_**A virtual hug to all my reviewers**__**. **_

Christine didn't know what to make of Raoul. He really was very handsome, with his impeccable suits and glittering blue eyes. He arrived at her dressing room after every show, arms laden with pink flowers, a smile on around his glittering teeth. He would take her for tea in creamy bone china with flowers painted on the side, and miniscule cakes she wasn't supposed to touch. He would take her for rides in a carriage around the park with her hat firmly pinned over her curls. He took her to lunch with his mother, which she was expected to sit through silently.

He didn't like to spend time with her at the opera house. He didn't like spending time with the backstage folk.

Christine watched with bewildered confusion as people she had known since she was ten years old began treating her differently. Men doffed their caps at her, bratty ballerinas giggled with her in the dressing room. Even Carlotta acknowledged her existence, if only to glare at her from afar. The only people who spoke to her in the same way were Meg and Madame Giry, and even then they had a sort of pained expression whenever conversation turned to the Count.

Christine began to escape more and more.

It was alarmingly simple. He must watch her, she reasoned, because the second she slipped away when something grew strained, he was there. The first time had been a surprise.

"His magic noose will wrap around even _your _pretty neck." Paul, one of the stagehands, had guffawed with his arms around a slight dancer. His captivated audience shrieked half with laughter, half with fear as the girl slapped him in giggling fright. Christine had watched from the back, stony faced, as they laughed at the expense of the revered ghost of the opera, the evil murderer, the ignorant psychopath. They told stories to titillate and scare, and as an excuse to touch one another with their rough clammy hands. She turned away when he planted a kiss on her neck with a loud smack, his noose chafing her skin.

People were everywhere, their oppressive presence pressing on her skin as she pushed her way through with sobs choking her throat. She didn't even know why. People, everywhere; eyes, everywhere. Eyes that took in her dishevelled appearance and churned out snide comments as to the count's unusual taste. Eyes that raked her from her grubby bare toes to her unruly hair and whispered about her in comparison to the young lady that was polished whenever Raoul came to take her out. They called her fake, they called her lucky. She pushed on, trying to play music in her head to block her ears, tears jerking at her throat.

There was nowhere in the opera house that was empty but the roof; ten years living in it had taught her that. Even in the dead of night there were people everywhere. It was a cesspool of humanity, a hive of diseased bees. The stairs were familiar, a hidden flight of wood slats that were hidden from view behind a faded cloth which might have once been the stage curtain.

And there was snow. Paris lay below her in a blanket, the galleries Lafayette to her right in a blaze of light, the night silent and clean beneath the heavy moon. Stars, as small as needle heads, scattered in dancing constellations under the drifting snow; stars on stars, crystal and ice in a whirlwind that parted her hair and sent the curls hazing into the black sky.

When her pulse had calmed, her eyes returning to their icy security, she became aware of him.

They didn't touch, they didn't speak. He walked until he was at her side, arms not quite touching where they rested on the wall, eyes on the scene spread below them with snow on his eyelashes. She didn't look at him, but watched his hands where they shifted through the light dusting of the snow with an artists' grace. She knew he was watching her face.

Without a word to the other, both swung up onto the wall so their legs dangled over the other side over nothingness, hands gripping the stone of the wall with an iron grip; his arm was around her waist, her face buried in his neck. She was crying. He didn't ask why. They sat in the silence of the night, their grief one, his presence as intangible as the ghost they said he was.

Then he was gone and she was left sitting alone on the wall, the only indication that he was ever there at all the melted snow where his fingertips had been and the cooling warmth at her waist.

After that it had been easy. She would escape to the roof and he would be there, like a spell. Sometimes they wouldn't speak, they would just look over Paris and consider their own unique entrapment. Sometimes she would talk, about her father, about the opera, about songs she had learned. Sometimes she would ask him questions he was always reluctant to answer, met with stony silence or a smirk. Sometimes he would just watch her, or request she sing for him. The strangest times were those when they laughed, helplessly, like children with their knees touching and their eyes shut in mirth, about nothing and everything, barely touching. A week, two weeks passed.

But it didn't feel real, he felt imaginary. A helpful spectre, a loving shade. He wasn't tangible. He wasn't real.

Raoul was real.

He had a supportive profit to live in comfort, and to keep her in wealth for her lifetime. He would give her the proper three children, two boys and a girl. She loved him. In a way. They had known each other as children, and he really was a wonderful match; handsome, titled. He cared for her: he told her so every day, always sure to show his affection in a comment or gesture.

Christine shivered, pulling her wrap closer about her, eyes shut to Paris as she let her mind drift back to the present. The Phantom was silent beside her, as he usually was these days, a silent wall to vent her anger towards. His fingers were long and loose on one of his cigarettes, the smoke rising into the sharp blue sky, eyes dark and unfathomable on the horizon as he ignored her presence. They had never spoken of Raoul. He knew he existed, he knew everything, and yet the subject had never been broached. In silence they shared the cigarette, until it burned as a short ember that he tossed far into the Parisian streets below. He said they loosened the throat, taught independence, husked the tone. She silently accepted his word.

"You know what they say of you, I presume." Christine whispered, her breath a caress of fog before her lips. The Phantom glanced at her. She never called him Erik.

"Of which in particular are you referring to?" He asked tonelessly, his expression as toneless as his mask.

"That you kill to get what you want," She shrugged as though it didn't matter to her, "That you have a magical noose."

"Next they'll say I can shoot fire from my mouth." He chuckled, drawing off his cloak almost absent-mindedly to drape about her shoulders. She noticed he didn't reply to the question.

"But do you? Kill people?" She insisted, turning to face him, her eyes fixed on his. He turned to face her, lips quirked in a smirk, arms crossed.

"Frequently?" He murmured, fingers reaching out to brush one of her cold cheeks. She blinked up at him, trying to decide if he meant that in the affirmative. He didn't help, eyes illegible as he bent towards her to brush her forehead with his lips in an almost fatherly gesture.

Before he left her.

_**CDECDECDECDECDECDECDECDECDEC DECDECDECDECDECDE**_

Backstage, Christine laced up her costume breeches with steady fingers. There had been some debacle with Carlotta throwing a fit at something or another, and the entire cast was in a tizz trying to keep the Prima Donna from having yet another tantrum. She had a feeling it had something to do with the Phantom, as people had that _look. _That of half fear, half excitement.

She didn't care.

When her skirt was in place concealing her breeches she slid into the wings, catching Meg's eye with a smirk at her attire. Meg shook her head exasperatedly, her face pasted pure white with a disturbing heart-shaped mouth. As the Pageboy, Christine was spared from the embarrassment. People whispered behind open hands as she passed, snatches of confusion as to why Raoul hadn't simply cast her as the main part, his being the benefactor and sponsor. Christine didn't know, nor did she care. Carlotta, stood before her, sweat beading under her make up, shot her a poisonous look from under her ridiculously high wig and snubbed her deliberately.

The curtain opened. Carlotta sprung forward like a perfumed panther and began to sing in her butchered high voice. Having no lines, Christine didn't have to listen, merely react to Carlotta's so-called acting. It was rather fun, the exaggerated movements prancing around with the swish of a transvestite before slouching across Carlotta's lap with the ease of a lover. The audience laughed, loving the ridiculousness of the show as Christine danced around the stage in a haze of amusement.

_Poor fool he makes me laugh- Ha ha ha!_

The cast watched her as she moved around, their dance perfectly synchronised, everything perfect but bloody Carlotta. The audience laughed on cue. The directors beamed from their box. Raoul watched approvingly from a box she had never seen him in before—

_Box 5._

_ What—_

Christine froze from shock, her body rigid as the implications struck her all at once. Why would he be in box five? That was _his _box and always had been. Unless- Unless it was a direct insult or challenge.

_Poor fool he doesn't know- kno-o-o-ow!_

Christine forced herself to move again, a puppet in her own horror, as she waited for the inevitable. She was almost intrigued to see what he would do. He didn't disappoint.

"Did I not instruct that box five remain empty?"

His voice was naturally magnified by the acoustics of the room, the music cut off with a screech as something fired directly into the pit. The conductor yelped and threw down his stick as the pebble struck his hand, the musicians breaking apart in confusion. Christine bit back a smile as his tone struck her; the king of melodrama, the overlord tone which she could hear suppressed laughter behind and yet knew no one else could. The cast shifted, whispers passing back and forth.

"Brilliant fool." Christine murmured under her breath, almost fondly, tucking her prop fan into her pocket. Raoul looked slightly panicked, flight or fight mode holding him captive as he froze in a half standing position. Carlotta shot her a glare, something deep and personal in that gaze which Christine couldn't understand.

"And… there seems to be a mishap with the _casting." _The Phantom added, almost as an afterthought, his tone silky with distaste. No one could see where the voice came from. And then everything hit her at once. He must have demanded of the managers that she be cast the main, fuelling Carlotta's personal vindication against her and leading to Raoul's determination to capture him.

Well, any idiot could see that would never work.

Before another word could be spoken, Carlotta collapsed.

The audience screamed as the woman toppled forward, her magnificent wig slipping to fall with a forlorn puff. Christine eyed her suspiciously, eyes turning thoughtfully upwards as cast and crew fled around her like a river around a rock. Sure enough, there he was, far away above her head on a balcony she was sure only he used. Even at such a distance she could see the smirk curving his lips. He was enjoying this far too much. He raised his fingers in a mock salute, and Christine snapped her eyes away from him so as to not give away his position.

When she was facing the audience once again she realised she was conspicuously the only still person on the stage. She hadn't rushed to help Carlotta, sure that whatever he had done to her wouldn't be lasting. She hadn't run away in fear, knowing he wouldn't touch her. But she caught glances, whispers, as people spread in an engorged mass of fear around her. With a glance at the directors, who spoke fast enough to make the air vibrate, Christine stepped forward into what had been Carlotta's limelight.

"Forgive the interruption." She called out, "The _Signora _has taken ill." The audience hushed, used to taking orders from the front. People stopped to stare at her, in relief or anger, she found she didn't care.

"Yes—yes!" One of the directors leapt up beside her, his moustache quivering as though her speaking had broken a spell. "Please, we will collect ourselves with a short break after which the main will be played by Miss Christine Daae—"

Christine shot him a swift glare from under her eyelashes, simultaneously acutely aware of the sinuously pleased expression of a man fifty feet above her head.

The curtain fell.


	6. 5) What is Writ, is Writ

"_What _were you thinking of?" Christine snapped, without turning, knowing he would be behind her as she laced the back of her costume. Sure enough without a word a larger, warmer pair of hands replaced hers on the sash and tied with quick efficiency. She sucked in a deep breath, one hand to her face which was sticky with perspiration and her page-boy make up, the other pressed to her abdomen, eyes on her reflection as it had been the first night in her dressing room what felt like months ago when she had first clapped eyes on him.

"I like my operas to be the best." He said smoothly. "You are the best."

"Two minutes miss Daae!" A harassed voice called from the other side of the door. Carlotta's fall had sent the company spinning. If they knew the very cause of that, the Phantom, was in her room helping her dress—Christine smothered a horrified giggle.

"Carlotta's voice suits the part, and I _enjoyed _being the pageboy. You don't have to fight my battles for me." Christine spun on her heel and fixed the man with a glare which hardly quailed as he glared back with a flinty expression. They watched each other a moment, mutually stubborn. Her confidence came from her ingrained assurance that he wasn't real. He wasn't really here, he was in her mind. His fingers reached up to softly rub at the make up under her eyes, his lips still pressed into a thin line. "Paul said you have a magic noose." She whispered suddenly, irrelevantly, fear suddenly striking her as she considered being alone with the Phantom.

"I'm unaccustomed to having people challenge my wishes." His voice was melted chocolate in the candlelight, as intoxicating as one of his roses.

"Perhaps you should have maintained your façade if it was that important to you." Christine shrugged, lifting her own hand to cover his where it lay on her cheek. His face worked uncomfortably under his mask as he ducked his head to touch it.

"Being an actress, you should understand facades better." He murmured, eyes lighting on the make up behind her, on the costume, the glitter.

"Being as apparently brilliant as you are, you should understand they're not merely visual."

The air suddenly charged, and Christine became aware that she'd either said something very wrong, or very, very right.

"Miss Daae!"

She couldn't reply, her throat tight, his hand suddenly immovable on her skin as he leant towards her.

The door clicked. One last glare, a caress on her cheek, and he was gone.

"Miss Daae, are you ready?" The stage-hand snapped, his face flushed with stress, nothing going according to plan.

"Yes." She whispered. Without another glance at the mirror, she swept from the room, her dress magnificently ugly, her neck straight, ready for the stage. If only she'd made it.

The screams reached her first.

"What is it _now?_" The stage-hand left Christine, his voice raised above the din, anger in his every staccato movement. He reached the wings, his face red and ready to burst before— His face swept clean, all blood leaving it pale. He turned, his mouth a gaping hole of horror as the dancers pushed past him in a tide around a stone, their faces reflecting his. He fought towards Christine to try and push her back, an inkling of fatherly protection spurring him on, but she dodged him and ran forward, achingly aware that whatever she saw would be due to _him. _

She couldn't even scream when she saw him. The body swung on one of the many game ropes from the heavens of the stage, tongue lolling revoltingly and leg twitching. She could only stare, eyes dry, mouth dry, as she recognised the body. Paul. Paul, who had delightedly shared stories of the Phantom. _"Paul said you have a magic noose." _She had said to him, mere moments before he disappeared from her dressing room.

This wasn't Paul anymore, it was a shell. It was a corpse, a doll. Christine sank to her knees. It was her fault. She caught a glimpse of _him_, far above her, his mask glowing white in the surrounding darkness as his barely concealed violence and rage quivered his taut fists. No one else looked up, they looked at the body, they ran. Their eyes connected once, through the space, hers accusing and filled with horror, his filmed with a rage of gods. He was smiling.

Horror choked her throat as her angel watched the dead swing with a smile.

She couldn't take it anymore. As quickly as she had arrived, she turned from him, from Paul, and ran. Blue eyes swam out of the melee, concerned and wide with fright.

"Raoul!" She shrieked, grabbing his hand as she ran, dragging him despite his argument. He wanted to be seen to help, to offer a hand in front of the public. He wanted to be part of the 'clean-up' team. But she took him, racing away from the Phantom, pulling Raoul the only place which sprung to mind. The wooden steps blurred beneath their feet as they ran, tears of disillusion streaming down her face.

"Why have you brought me here?" Raoul yelled from behind her, shocked at the passionate display from she he courted. She ignored him, throwing open the trap door to the roof that she knew so well and breaking into the moonlight, short sharp gasps panting into a mist in the cold air. "We must return!"

"He'll kill you!" She screamed at him, thumping her closed fists into his chest. He staggered, shocked, catching her wrists and trying to hold her still. "His eyes will find you, no matter where you go, and _know _that you stand in the way between him and what he wants."

"Forget this waking nightmare," Raoul said hoarsely, abrasively, into her face, "The Phantom of the Opera will kill and kill again, a thousand men, to keep his reputation as unstoppable."

"The _Phantom of the Opera _is a _fable. _He doesn't exist!"

"My god," Christine broke off a sob, turning away from Raoul in sudden disgust of his perfection and normality as he watched her through eyes shielded with distrust for her imperfect behaviour, "who is this man?"

She didn't know which she spoke of, but Raoul took her to mean the Phantom.

"Well, _who is this man, _then?"

"I can't escape from him." Christine whispered, suddenly, sinking again to her knees with a shiver.

"Who is this voice you hear?" Raoul asked gently, spreading his cloak to kneel on to avoid the snow, and awkwardly placing a hand on her shoulder in a semblance of comfort. She turned her beautiful eyes towards him, blue in the black of the night, and Raoul knew he'd forgive her abnormal behaviour if just for those eyes. "He's just there, inside your mind."

She shivered again, fingers clutching at her bare arms as she stared unseeingly into the sky.

"Raoul," She whispered his name, as though it pained her, "I've been there, I've seen him."

Christine didn't tell him anything else. It felt intensely too private. The candles, the night, the bed. His face, the expressions that played on it, the mask. His anger, his kindness, his want, his sadness. How they had sat and laughed and smoked and cried. How his music had completed her soul. She stared at he who was supposed to become her husband and tried to fit her unsaid words into her eyes, staring at him desperately as though she was drowning. He didn't notice.

"A dream, and nothing more." Raoul said, half impatiently, half gently.

"But—"

"No. No more talk of darkness." He brushed her off, pulling her to her feet and pulling his cloak back around his own shoulders. "_I'm _here, so nothing can harm you."

Christine eyed his lean frame dubiously, with his fashionable suit and smooth hair, but allowed herself to be pulled to the romantic edge of the balcony as he streamed sweet nothingness towards her. Was this a proposal? She realised dizzyingly as he said warm words of being her freedom and shelter. How could another man _be _her freedom? Freedom was found alone. But she didn't want to interrupt something that he had obviously planned, and she should obviously want.

"Say you'll love me every waking moment." She whispered, trying to trick her heart, "promise me that all you say is true."

A cold thud settled in her heart as his eyes brightened. She looked at him, lacklustre and forgetful in the darkness, and shivered as she contended with her mind which argued at the thought of settling for him.

"That's all I ask of you." Because she could not expect him to grant her much more.

"I'll guide you in life, Christine, and bring you to be a wife a man would be proud to show off to his peers." He said as though he granted a boon, his tone fatherly and warm.

"All I want is freedom." Christine whispered against the tears that threatened her eyes. Raoul smiled and nodded eagerly, not really listening to her words as his mind buzzed with plans. "And you, to hide me."

"Then say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Let me lead you from your," He glanced around at where they stood, his nose crinkled somewhat in disgust, "solitude."

He pulled her towards him, his hands chaste on her waist, his eyes inviting.

"Say you love me." She whispered again, aware he still hadn't as she placed her hands on his chest.

"You know I do."

And he kissed her. He was warm, the tip of his nose was cold, and he tasted of whiskey. She waited for him to finish, watching the snow over his shoulder, cold inside. Her first kiss, her first proposal, and her mind was spinning with death and darkness, fear and horrible, crushing betrayal.

"I must go, they'll wonder where I am." She eventually said, sliding her face away from his. Raoul smiled down at her and shrugged.

"Very well."

As they left, Christine turned her head, sure she could hear her name on the wind. Not a word, but a whimper.

_**CDECDECDECDECDECDCECDCECDCEC DE**_

Meg was worried. Christine lived in a haze of cooing women and wedding plans, taffeta and silk. She sat in their midst, pale and untouchable as a statue, eyes vague and fingers wrapped a black ribbon. The ribbon from the rose. Raoul didn't visit as often, his prize already claimed, leaving Christine alone with people who didn't know how to treat her. Meg fought to get closer to her, but she had changed bedroom, the Count unhappy with his fiance's current situation.

"Christine, what's wrong?" She whispered desperately, one rainy day in January, when she had spotted her adopted sister alone for a moment.

"Raoul wants me to give up singing." She said dully, "Apparently the opera isn't the place for a lady."

Meg's eyes grew round as berries. She knew the opera ran in Christine's blood. To take away her music was to kill her. From her birth to her musician father, music had been all there was.

"Leave him." She had begged, her arms around the doll Christine used to be.

"Then he'll come for me." She had whispered, cryptically, pained.

Meg was confused, but tried to hide it. Never before had she been confused by Christine. They had been on one wavelength since before she could remember. She merely hugged her as tight as she could, trying to melt her chilly disposition into something more familiar. Christine's head fell heavily onto her shoulder, eyes dry and curls warm.

"Help me." She whispered into her sisters ear.

_**That's all for this chapter, folks. But before you leave, a word on smoking.**_

_**Loads of people have complained about the fact that Erik smokes in my version, and I understand so I'm not going to mention it again, but I'm not going to take it out because it's what he would have done. This is 18/19**__**th**__** century France, where smoking was the socially done thing for men; it was considered strange not to. The fact that he encourages Christine to smoke shows how he's not constrained by social convention. It's not that he's unintelligent, it's only within the last 15 years that smoking has been linked to cancer, before that it was widely known to be beneficial for the health. Rant over! **____** See you next time!**_


	7. 6) Wild Universe is Skillful to Diffuse

_**Let's play 'spot the Love Never Dies reference'! first person to review with the right answer can request their very own one-shot, about anything, of any rating.**_

Her corset begged someone to take her waist. Her hair was pulled off her creamy neck, inviting someone to press a kiss into its nape. Her hips swayed tantalisingly beneath full burgundy skirts as she moved down the corridor.

Her eyes were empty.

The handsome Count positively glittered with attention, his hair smooth and blue eyes sparkling with amusement as the show-folk prostrated themselves before him, the most beautiful of them all on his arm. He led her to the dance floor, a peacock in its prime, in a waltz without fault. Her head was high and smile fierce as she turned her face from him with eyes lowered. Her face was a mask of taut expression.

The dancers hired for the ball danced around the room, faces covered and eyes gleaming behind slits. Musicians stood on their stand, fingers effortless on beautiful instruments. The tune was one she knew, the only thing holding her to reality as she felt her mind spinning away from her.

She knew it came from _him._

_Masquerade…_

_Hide your face and the world will never find you._

The lyrics tore at her. If a person was only ever honest through their art, his honesty was physically painful. She bit back tears as she forced herself to remember Paul, his body swinging, his toes twitching. The Phantom was dark. But the pure gaity with which they sang his deepest insecurities sickened her.  
"A secret engagement." She had whispered to Raoul on entrance, pulling at the ring on a chain around her neck as though it chafed her. He looked down at her, surprised and guilelessly annoyed.

"A secret? It's an engagement, not a crime. Of course it should be public."

"Please don't argue."

"Christine, what's the matter with you?"

Christine had turned her face from him, stubbornly silent, still tugging at his ring. It was a huge diamond, of course, an iced facet surrounded by cold sapphires. He had frowned at her and leaned down, one hand possessive on her shoulder as he tried to kiss her. She jolted at the contact of his tongue, whipping her head around like a startled deer.

"Please don't."

"What have we to hide?" He tried to kiss her again, hand edging towards her breast. Christine cringed and shook him off, eyes dark and angry in a stoic face.

Now they danced, smiling emptily, the masks hiding anything untoward. If people had seen him kiss her they assumed it was the fever of the party and celebration. They all knew anyway. Christine just hadn't stated her engagement publicly. The knowing looks as his hand rested on her waist made her skin crawl.

The heady mix of music and alcohol wound its effects around the people, as their movements gradually became more sloppy, their laughs more shrieks, their faces reddened. Raoul giggled like a child as women pressed from him on all sides, the dancers dizzy with heat. Primal beats ruined the music, thrumming in order to entice the women into dancing away from their Parisian roots. Carlotta had her head thrown back, revealing her plump décolletage, pressed into a belly dancer's costume. Christine stood pale and sober, watching everything with a detached curiosity. This would be her life, she realised. Parties and alcohol, looking pretty and being careful what she said, turning a blind eye to Raoul. Was that life?

As though he could hear her thoughts, _he _arrived.

The lights blew out.

Christine bit back amusement that welled almost immediately at the melodrama of his actions, classically him, classically self-conscious. If he could control the weather he would take delight in well-timed thunder claps. And then there he was, at the top of the stairs, looking ridiculously terrifying in an outfit of black and red. Christine couldn't stop a giggle at his pose, head lowered, fists clenched, a gleam no one would see in his eye.

And then she remembered, forcing herself to think of Paul, let alone the faceless nameless other victims. A slam of disappointment wrenched her chest as she watched him, disconsolate. Raoul tapped her arm and left her, but she barely noticed.

"Why so silent, good monsieurs?"

She had to bite back amusement yet again as the crowd surged away from him, suddenly, as though he had snapped poison. It was nice to see, after the walking on eggshells she had done for the months since the performance of _Il Muto._ He walked lazily, shifting his weight between his feet like a cat testing ice, his eyes burning into hers. She bit back a shiver.

"Did you miss me?" He whispered, his eyes dancing. She could only hold herself still to prevent the nod that itched to be free. He turned his attention to the others, his head held imperiously over them as they stared at him in awe and fear. He knew how to hold a crowd.

"Seeing as you ignored my previous correspondences I thought it best to come and see you all… personally." His voice lingered over the last word, like a promise. Christine shivered again. She stopped listening to him, watching him, aware of reactions but not caring to hear what he said. She knew it was a front, a pretence. In his eyes lay the truth, the pleading adoration, the frantic desperation. Another stab of disappointment. He was a killer.

"As for Christine-" His eyes were suddenly on hers again, softening imperceptivity as he realised she had been watching him rather than listening. He watched her a moment, his face hard but his gestures betraying gentleness. "Your voice is good. But if you wish to improve, you must return to _me. _Your teacher."

She opened her mouth, ready with a retort, only to have his fingers brush her lips. She blinked, shocked that he had moved so fast, gripping his wrist hard to stop herself falling backwards. He lowered his face, lips brushing her forehead, so she could feel his smile, quicker than a birds wing. When he backed away, his face was stony and feared once again. She wasn't even sure if anyone else would have noticed.

And then he had his back to her. Christine blinked. There were gasps and shrieks around the room, and her neck was stinging. He raised a hand to her throat to find Raoul's ring missing, dangling instead from the Phantom's long fingers. All she could feel was relief.

"Erik." She whispered brokenly to his back. He froze, his head whipping around to her. Christine was suddenly acutely aware that this was the first time she's called him by his given name.

"Christine." He murmured back, voice seemingly shatteringly loud in the silence of the room.

"Why?" Her voice was so quiet she herself could not hear, but somehow his musician's ears caught the snatched word. He eyed her sadly for a moment, but something over her shoulder caught his attention. Christine saw the glitter of steel in the corner of her vision, the Phantom growled something, and then he was gone. Christine blinked, only to catch sight of a trapdoor where he had been. Raoul stalked towards it, ready to throw himself down, only to find it barred to him. He threw down his sword in irritation.

It was only much later that she understood herself. She had called him Erik because he was no longer her untouchable angel. He had fallen. He was real.

_**CDECDECDECDECDECDECDECDECDEC DECDECDECDECDECDECDCE**_

__"Erik." Her call was soft, sad. She didn't expect a reply. The snow had melted, leaving a clear, mild night behind, with the chill of melted ice. To her surprise, tense moments later, he appeared as he always had, his hand warm on the balcony beside her. But he didn't touch her. She was grateful. It was as it had been a hundred times before, and they fell into the easy pattern.

"Why did you call me Erik?" He asked quietly. They had never exchanged pleasantries.

"It's your name." She whispered, trying to ignore the implications behind his question. She couldn't look at him, but she knew he was looking at her. "Why is this so hard?"

"Your fiancée," He lingered on the word with no short measure of disgust, "is discussing my personal matters with Madame Giry. I came to prevent myself from ripping him, or her, apart, for I'm sure that would win me no favours with you."

If it had been anyone else to say so, she would assume it were an exaggeration. But with one glance sideways she could see his clenched fists and set jaw quivering with anger. She suppressed a jolt of fear.

"Why tell me? Surely you know it would frighten me."

"Of course, but you're not a child, nor an idiot. You can handle a little fear. I'm not going to entirely conceal myself like your Count does." She caught his smirk from the corner of her eye as he lazily turned to lean his back against the wall, his arms and ankles crossed. "I also know you. A staid life is dull, you need some… _spice."_

"And fear is the only _spice _you can fathom?"

His eyes glittered in the night, his smirk curving readily under a raised eyebrow.

"Not the _only _one, no."

Christine shut her mouth with a snap, a smirk curving her own mouth as they grinned at each other like conspiring children looking up swear words in the dictionary. Her smile faded as she allowed herself to think again. He watched her go cold again with bitterness.

"Why did you do it?"

"Ah, so you're willing to hear me out _now?_" Erik glared down at her, impatiently unclasping his cloak to pin around her shoulders instead. She hadn't realised she was cold. "Before, you ran away and got engaged out of sheer spite."

"It wasn't spite." Christine spat, unable to stop herself reaching out with open palms to slam into his chest. He didn't flinch, but caught her wrists and held them tight, his expression livid.

"What was it then?" He growled, his lips mere inches from hers. She hissed in frustration and irritation, trying to get free to hit him again. He held her fast, shaking her a little. "Answer me!"

"It was—" She couldn't make herself say it.

"Love. Was it _love, _darling?"

"_You know nothing of love._" Christine spat, tears overspilling from her eyes and streaming down her icy cheeks.

"Nor do you, Christine, for all your fine horses." They were shouting at one another, still clasped to keep violence at bay. It was the most she had heard him say in one go. _"Love _does not depend on circumstance or action, nor can it be forced for social preservation or acceptance."

"How dare-"

"I've known you since you were ten years old, when I was practically a child myself. I fought for ten years to teach you, without inflicting my presence on you, with the music that sets my soul on fire. I soothed your nightmares and sang you to sleep when you woke with thoughts of your father in your mind. I pretended to be an angel for you childish sensibilities. You have a dimple when you laugh truly, and none falsely. You chew your lip when you sing. _That, _Christine, is _love._"

He released her suddenly, dropping her hands as though she were made of flame.

"You kill, you haunt. You live in darkness and solitude." Christine sobbed, drawing her arms to her chest and rocking on her feet.

"You sing for gentlemen and throw yourself at the first call of safety." Erik looked across Paris so he wouldn't have to see the rejection in her eyes. "You use others to achieve security you should be able to trust yourself with, as I did. You're judgemental. I'm sure your Count tells you you're perfect. You're not. You snore. You're flawed, but I love you despite that."

Christine jerked, her head snapping up to him. Erik eyed her wanly.

"Don't be absurd, Christine, you know I love you."

"You _killed_ a man." Her voice was colder than she intended, her fear and confusion transpiring in anger.

"I've killed many men." His voice was suddenly iron in winter.

"Why?" Christine choked on another sob, her hand coming up to rest on her cheek.

"Because life is worthless and degrading. I suffer enough without suffering cruel fools. I don't understand this frantic desire for the sanctity of life." Erik touched his mask, fleetingly, his eyes suddenly avoiding hers. "my life means nothing to anyone, but you, and Giry. Therefore, why should anyone's lives mean anything to me?"

Christine found herself utterly unable to argue.

"My God, what kind of life have you known?" She whispered, horrified.

He turned away from her, his face settling into its familiar hard lines. This was the Phantom of the Opera, not her Erik. They stood in silence, breathing hard. The moon was missing, she noted idly. They stood beneath their moonless sky, the pregnant silence pulsing with things unsaid.

"I was sold to a carnival by my mother." He said, when the silence grew unbearable. Christine jerked around her head, horrified.

"Why?"

"My… face."

Having spent so long with him, the mask just seemed part of his skin. She barely noticed it anymore, not even to consider what lay beneath.

"I never knew my mother." Christine whispered, trying to give something back. He glanced down at her, his face shadowed.

"The carnival master kept me in a cage and advertised me as a demon child. People would come to watch him whip me and hit me with a broken pipe. I was six. I was there for a year. He didn't let me out, much." His words were clipped, clinical and precise, as though speaking of the weather. "Giry came and smuggled me away to the opera. The end."

Christine stood very still.

"Erik-"

"Christine." His tone was resigned. "As charming as it is to share my every inner secret with an engaged woman, if you'll excuse me." Erik turned on his heel, hiding his face, and was gone before Christine could follow. She waited until it had been silent for at least five minutes before screaming in frustrated agony at the deaf roofs of Paris, her heart in her throat and tears of agonising anger at the world surprising her. She screamed for him, for the child who had gone hungry and beaten, humiliated, unloved, sold, a piece of meat, lower than rats for at least rats are left to be themselves. She screamed for the man he had been forced to become, defensive and solitary, hidden far away from view. And she screamed for herself, because she knew without a doubt that she could never, ever overlook the fact that he was the Phantom, the murdering demon, the feared ghost. And that wasn't fair.

_**;;;;;;;;;;…**_


	8. 7) Light Eros Finds a Feere

_**I'm going away for a couple of weeks, so here's a special Christmas present for you. Emeraldphan won my oneshot competition and requested something to show Madame Giry, and whether she regretted saving Erik. I put it in the time frame so it can be part of the story, so all my lovely reviewers can enjoy it!**_

Antoinette Giry watched from her vantage point, her heart in her throat, her blood hot with concern, and something she certainly didn't want to call jealousy. The gap in the wall was one Erik had shown her he had made years ago, little eye sockets that she could press against occasionally to spy, if she were inclined to brave the cold.

She stood in two inches of cold water. The gap for this room, the dressing room, was in a remarkably dismal cavity in the wall that was a wrench to fight for. This room had belonged to Carlotta for so long, and Erik naturally therefore avoided it for the sake of his ears, and sanity. She couldn't help but note, however, the recent lingering scents roses and cigarettes, with a wrench of something akin to pain.

He had been here recently, then.

Christine was sat alone in the little room, her face propped in one palm, eyes fastened on a candle. She was alone. It was one night among many, with no reason for Erik to visit. But… she couldn't help but check.

Antoinette was torn. Christine was like her daughter. She had found her, skinny and wan with grief in her every movement as she shuffled around the streets of Paris with bare feet and thin shoulders wrapped in a shawl too fine to be hers. And she had been reminded of another child she had found, short years before, that similar look of emptiness in the eye; of abandonment and isolation. And so she had done what she had done before, and had brought that child to the opera house.

Antoinette bit down on her fist to prevent a sob that would give away her position. Chrissie, her little _cherie_ with butter brown hair that grew carefully brushed under her maternal hand, and eyes as blue as a night sky. Her second daughter who had been such a good sister to her first, their heads, dark and light, bent together for so many years in careful play. Her child, whose face fit so perfectly in the crook of Antoinette's neck, when she was sad or scared. Her strange child who sang songs no one else knew. Her child who was no longer her child.

She rested her face against the cold wall and breathed hard. Her arms ached for her little girl. And yet here she was, reduced to sneaking in walls and watching from darkness to be sure her child was safe. And all because of—

"_Erik." _She hissed, spinning around with the practiced agility of a dancer. He was behind her, his cloak high against the chill, his eyes glittering darkly in the black cavity, ripples from the splash that had alerted her lapping at her calves.

"What are you doing, Antoinette?" He whispered, eyes flitting briefly to the hole behind her. She hadn't seen him this close in so long. He smelled dizzyingly of roses and candlewax.

"I was checking on my daughter."

"What makes her your daughter?"

"I rescued her. I kept her safe."

Erik smiled, suddenly, the boyish open smile of his childhood.

"Does that make me your son, then?"

Antoinette shuddered at that, a thought too sinful to contemplate. Erik caught her movement with a frown of confusion, holding out a hand to her. Antoinette ignored it and turned back to Christine, carefully watching Erik's face as he followed suit. The pleading adoration that filled the expression she knew so well left her cold. She couldn't help but feel a sudden flash of… hatred for her girl, she who she loved above everyone with Meg. Jealousy, boiling and full of pain, yanked her heart to her abdomen. He watched her. She knew without a doubt that he loved her. And that just killed her.

"What's your name?" She had croaked at him, between the bars, her fingers stretched out to him in a desperate attempt to offer him some comfort. He hadn't understood comfort as a concept, and had flinched back.

"I don't remember." He whispered, holding the tatters of the potato sack he used as a mask for his face, desperately, like a drowning man at straws.

That had been before he had killed the man who beat him, and she had smuggled him away. Barely more than a child herself, he was too much of a responsibility, and yet she knew somewhere they could go. He had been reliant on her, desperate for her every touch, waiting for her every breath before breathing himself. She couldn't hate him for murder. He was seven, yet had the stunted growth of a labouring five year old, with eyes a mile wide and a trembling mouth filled with gaps where his milk teeth had been extracted for entertainment.

He offered her kissed and hugs freely, growing up. He didn't understand the differences between the categories of affection, and Antoinette found herself constantly reminding herself that he didn't understand, even while craving his touch. She named him Erik, after a norse fairytale she had heard. When he was seventeen and she nineteen, it had grown too much, and she had kissed him full on the mouth. He had flinched and looked confused, his hands clutching at the air.

"That was different, wasn't it?" He murmured. He was befuddled when she loosened her dress and pushed him lightly back onto the bed, her familiar voice pleading with him to tell her he loved her. He held her and followed her lead, the candles of his home he had constructed reflecting their shadows. And he was confused all the while, his eyes wide, unable to say the words.

Later, when Antoinette lay wrapped in a sheet, her head pillowed on his chest, he had touched her cheek.

"I think I understand," He had whispered, "I do. I understand the different between love and affection. But that wasn't right."

She had stormed away, tears streaming down her cheeks. But it wasn't his fault, he hadn't learned the social conventions of blunting a blow. She loved him, but he didn't love her.

What she saw now on his face was what she had wanted to see that night, fifteen years ago. Pure, light filled, love, that blazed from his face in a way that left the scrap of cloth fastened to his face redundant. That blasted mask. The cause of so much pain, so much horror, what did it matter?

He was still the boy she had known, but with such confidence, such self-awareness, such genius, that he was so much more than any other man could ever hope to be. Entirely self-sufficient, he was almost predatorial.

"Erik," She whispered, one finger touching his cheek. "Do you love her?"

Erik looked at her, curiously, his mind flitting back to the last time he had heard that word from her. But he couldn't stop a smile sliding over his mouth.

"Of course."

Rather than jealousy, Antoinette was suddenly filled with a fierce pride for her boy. After so much, after so much darkness, just the fact that he could love was such a proof of light in his soul.

"Look after my girl." She murmured, with a sense of release that was dizzying.

_**Have a magical Christmas everyone.**_


	9. 8) Portion of That Around Me

_**Happy new year everyone! Aren't we all glad the world didn't end. Sorry for the wait I was away without my laptop. We have some lovely biased Erik time ahead!**_

Christine was crying.

Erik flinched.

She had rushed to the roof, his name scorching the air in a brand on the stars as her eyes desperately searched their balcony. But she never had figured out where he concealed himself. Erik pressed himself against the cold stone of the gargoyle suited to his height, his eyes shut, his lips mouthing words he desperately wanted to call aloud. His cloak was silent on the stone as he held himself still, the wind trying to force him to see her.

Her voice had changed from desperate, to resigned, to a chant of his name as she sobbed in supplication on her knees, her dressed pooled around her.

For days he had watched since their conversation. From walls and wings, he waited. But she didn't break her engagement. They plotted against him. He couldn't bring himself to look her in the eyes. For days she had come to the roof, and for days he had listened. He knew tonight she would give up.  
And yet he couldn't bring himself to face her.

She whimpered his name.

_**CDECDECDECDE**_

Christine couldn't sleep. The room was silent. No lullabies enticed her to the other side. Instead she could hear Raoul's laboured breathing from the other side of the door, abrasive and harsh to her ears without melody.

She tossed in the sheets, aware of the stiff trails of tears on her cheeks as she huffed in irritation at the intangibility of sleep. The moon sliced her eyes with a brightness that pained her. She wanted darkness, music, and warmth. With a curse she bit that thought short and slid to her feet before her traitorous mind took her somewhere she had no business being. Quickly, silently, she slipped out of her night gown and into a warm chemise, lacing her corset over the top with quick fingers clumsy with adrenaline. The dress was heavy and dark, and would allow her to blend into the night. With a cloak in one hand, she carefully slid out of her bedroom, past Raoul who slept in an armchair brought for him to watch her door, out into the night.

The bare cobblestones were silent beneath her careful tread as she hailed one of the Opera carriages. Her eyes turned away for a moment, caught by a flash of light, crucially, before a smooth voice was asking where she would like to be taken.

She knew that voice.

She shivered with a sudden flash of longing and looked up at the driver, forcing a stoic expression onto her face.

"The cemetery, please, monsieur." She murmured, catching a glimpse of surprise in his eyes where they glinted under the heavy hood. He nodded once, and she slid into the carriage, her eyes carefully blank, her heart hammering. Why was he here? She hadn't heard from him in days.

The horses was energised after a long rest, and they made quick time. Montmartre rose, foggy and ghost-like around her as she watched, eyes and mouth dry. When they were at the gates of the cemetery she rapped sharply on the ceiling.

"Stop here!" She called, gathering her cloak around her shoulders. They jolted to a halt. The door opened.

Before she could consider what she was doing, she slid out of the carriage straight into his arms.

"Why haven't you answered me?" She whispered into his neck, her hands clutching desperately at the front of his shirt, tears jerking suddenly beneath her squeezed eyelids. Without a word, he slid his arms around her, holding her yet closer and sliding his own cloak so she was warm within the cocoon of his embrace. He smelled of roses and a dark earthy spice. "Erik." Her voice broke into a sob.

Erik didn't reply, his face blank as he watched vaguely over her head, his arms around her hard and traitorous. The soft curves of her body pressed into him in all the wrong places, forcing something like violence to stiffen his limbs. It was all he could do not to push her back against the carriage to feel her pressed against him yet harder. He shut his eyes briefly, the muscle ticking in his jaw has he swallowed. She seemed to sense something as she raised her head and looked at him in concern.

He fisted his hands. Her eyes were wide and wet, close to black in the early morning, set high above a quivering mouth that shaped his name so invitingly. The fear and revulsion was missing. With a groan, Erik dropped his arms and turned away. Why had he come? He had seen her leaving and had chosen to follow in a split second of stupidity.

"Erik." She whispered again, two syllables of such longing that he wheeled around in shock. Christine shivered under his gaze, aware of the idiocy of what she was doing. Goading the beast. Playing with fire. He held himself very still.

"Erik." She murmured a third time, her eyes shut, breathy with a moan of pain and desire, confusion and want.

"Christine."

She jerked. No one else had ever infused so much into her name before. The bitterly harsh 'C,' the longingly drawn out 'I,' the sweet caress of the 'S' and the loneliness of the 'Ine.' Raoul's 'Miss Daee' and 'Little Lottie' seemed stilted and cold by comparison. Childish endearments in comparison to the wildness of her given name.

"Please." She hissed, before she could take back the word, before she could think. Without pause, she was pressed back against the carriage, her back slamming hard into the wood as his body came against hers from chest to knee, hip bones pressing into one another as she gasped. His mouth hovered above hers, mere millimetres away, their breath warm on the other with dizzying heat. And yet they did not touch. She strained against him, out of breath, shocked at how merely being close could have such an effect on her as she fought closer. His hands were on her hips, hers clawing at his shoulders.

"Our games of make believe are at an end. I grow tired of your petty indecision. _Decide._" He hissed with barely concealed violence, his hands hard on her through her clothes, his eyes gentle with fear. Christine whimpered once, a lonely sound, as Erik pressed yet closer to her to force the breath from her lungs; and yet she found breath of little consequence as pure desire lanced from the feel of him against her. Still clutching at his shoulders as wrapped her legs around his hips, eyes deliriously shut as his lips viciously kissed her neck.

His hands followed her knees to her thigh, his hands warm as they traced to her hips, teeth biting at her collarbone. And then, as quickly as it had started, he stepped away, a hand out to stop her staggering.

"Leave me for a moment." He said harshly, turning away with carefully constrained movements, his shoulders heaving as he panted. "Go. See your father."

Cold disappointment, quickly chased by self-disgust flashed through Christine as she considered what she had done.She swept past him, pain and desire warring as her heart hardened against the soft vulnerability she had seen in his eyes. She didn't stop to consider how he knew whom she had come to visit. She had forgotten herself in the early morning mist. Erik watched her go, pain in his expression, hopeless love shining from his countenance. She did not turn to see.

_**CDECDECDECDECDECD**_

Christine held her cloak close about her as she trailed through the cemetery. The bare branches were wet with rain, stark against the dusky pale sky. She passed flowers and cards, ribbons and sweets, until she came to the snug corner she herself had chosen when she was ten years old. A gravestone, marked by a small statue of an angel clutching a violin.

_Gustave Daae,_

_Beloved father, beloved musician._

_Here the whole world; stars, water, air,_

_And field, and forest, as they were_

_Reflected in a single mind._

Christine sank to her knees, mindless of the rainwater, and clutched at the grass that lay thick and sweet against her palms. Her eyes gazed unseeingly at the familiar epitaph, lips forming questions she could never ask, not knowing where to start. Eventually she lay forward, her forehead pressed into the springy ground, breathing in the warm earthy scent.

"You were all that mattered." Tears streamed from her eyes, down, into the ground where she knew he lay. A broken sob. She dug her fingers into the soil as though she would claw down to join him. She cried silently, as she had done so many times, this time with a guilt that sharply tore at her spine and turned her into a sniveling child.

"I need you to tell me what to do." There was no answer, as she desperately waited, stilling her heartbeat in the hope of a sign.

"Tell me what to do!"

Silence.

The only sound in the cemetery was her choked gasping as she struggled to get a hold of herself. He was there, somewhere, she knew. Silently waiting for her. Always waiting for her.

"The wrong companions?" She couldn't help ask, meekly, quietly. She felt such confusion she would take the slightest indication as an omen. But nothing.

Oh, Raoul. He was sunshine and summer, childish picnics and rhymes. He was security and safety. He was brightness and children, raised correctly. He was a secure bright future, one any orphaned chorus girl, the daughter of a fiddler, should leap upon. He would hide her from the darker underbelly of life, keep her safe. Christine looked at the gravestone bleakly. Why was there any confusion in her mind?

And then he was beside her, silent, staring at the gravestone. She became acutely aware that she was still on her knees, the rainwater seeping through, her cheeks cold with tears. She couldn't bring herself to be embarrassed. To her shock, he knelt suddenly, fingers folded neatly on his lap as he cocked his head, unthinking of his impeccable suit. Erik said not a word. Christine was grateful. She returned to her mourning, silently, fingers knotting the grass into complicated plaits.

"Tell me about him." Erik whispered.

"He was a brilliant mind. Talented, handsome, a man of which there is no compare." Christine said quietly.

"He must have been, to have you so passionately devoted to him that you spend your life trying to make him happy."

Christine didn't look at him.

"What do you mean? Music?" Her voice was cold.

"Music is in your soul. That does not come from parentage." He paused, "I was referring to his desire to have you in security."

"What father does not want his only daughter in security?"

"But he wanted it more desperately than most, did he not?"

Christine wanted to pretend she had no idea what he was talking about. But flashes from her memory startled her. Hiding under musty blankets, raised voices, fist fights. A violin, played desperately for coins to feed the starving child. A single father, despairing, frantic, a child in his arms as he fought for something to give her. Slim meals of bread and milk, the sting of hunger, the stench of poverty. And then relief, the relief of patronage of the De Chagney's.

"Desperate, yes. He was my angel."

Silence fell between them.

"Your angel?" He prompted.

"I don't believe in God, Erik. But angels—angels offer the solace of faith without the convoluted faithlessness of religion."

"I don't believe in God either." Erik stared straight ahead. "It's hard to."

"I believe in angels."

"And I am your angel of music?" His voice was bitterly amused. Christine shot him a sidelong glance, anything by angelic in his black suit and cloak, hiding his face with a sinful smirk on his lips as he knelt in the rain-slicked grass.

"Perhaps not." She said with a chuckle, "But you were."

"Wandering child." He said it softly, amused, like a slightly insulting endearment.

"Feckless ghost." She returned with a soft, unladylike snort. In a display of playfulness that surprised her momentarily, Erik reached out to tickle her waist, his face in the stiff, melodramatic mask of the Phantom, though his eyes twinkled with amusement.

"Have you _forgotten _your _angel?" _He boomed in the voice he usually reserved for the managers, deliberately terrifying. Christine giggled, with a mock gasp as he wrestled her to the ground, amused face hovering above hers. "How dare you deny me! Turning your face from true- beauty." He finished wryly, his tone heavily sarcastic as he tapped his mask. Christine laughed hard, her corset constraining as she struggled to draw breath.

"Oh, my angel of music!" She chuckled, playing along, gasping in mock horror and supplication.

"Christine!"

Erik and Christine both snapped their heads around, shocked.


	10. 9) Pomp and Power Alone are Woman's Care

_** Oh my, a very, very long chapter. This was so fun to write I couldn't stop! AGHHH **__**kills self from pure emotion of the ending.**__*****_

"_Christine _get away from him! He's not your father!" A male voice screamed from down the hill. Christine frowned, disconcerted, and shot Erik a sidelong glance. His arms were around her, face planed and dangerous in the morning mist. Of course he wasn't her father. Christine, slid one cold hand away form Erik and slid to her feet, turning her back.

"Raoul?" She called, confusion evident in her tone. The man was riding a horse, pure white, and he was in blindingly white shirtsleeves. She raised one eyebrow and turned to glance at Erik, only to find him missing. A cold sense of foreboding fingered down her spine.

"Christine!" He called again, swooping down from his horse with a huff of relief as he drew her into his embrace, warm and brotherly with a chaste kiss on her forehead. "I worried when you weren't in your room."

"How did you find me here?" She whispered, carefully extracting herself from his embrace. Her father's tombstone burned a brand on her back, like he was glaring at her. Or him. Raoul's pale eyes swept her face, icy blue, a flicker of annoyance in their depths.

"I followed you."

"Why?"

Raoul looked at her like she was mad.

"We're to be married, I must know where you are."

"At—at all times?" Christine shivered, knowing he was there, somewhere, his black eyes burning in the rain.

"Of course, I must know you're safe." Raoul stroked his hand down her cheek, in a possessive gesture one might mistake for love. He cared for her, he would keep her safe. He would hide her and keep her safely tucked against her side. She turned her head bleakly to regard her father's stone. _Gustave Daae… Here the whole word… reflected in a single mind._

She had chosen his epitaph. Ten years old. The words were simply meant, he was her whole world, and she was his. She would be the only one to remember him and keep his legacy; within her own mind. But how to keep his legacy alive? Through music? Through his own life's aim to keep her as alive and safe as possible? Perhaps Erik was right. But that did not mean that awareness led to shunning what she had worked towards for her entire life. Her father would never be brought to life; that twinkle in his green eye, that smile when his fiddle was between his capable fingers, that uproarious laugh when his child did something amusing on the road. Was that it then? Memories? Or would she act to make him as fulfilled in death as he never was in life?

Christine slowly lowered her head to press against Raoul's chest, smothering a sob, arms rigid by her side. It was enough. He wrapped warm arms around her and began to lead her to his horse, a disdainful look shooting around the cold graveyard. He didn't ask who she'd been visiting. She followed, blank eyed, not looking around where she knew he would be watching.

But he was not so given to being ignored. A black shape, dark against the dark morning, threw itself into their path. His footsteps were silent on the cobbles, sword in hand and clashing against Raoul's before he was even aware of his presence. His eyes burned into hers briefly, pained and filled with a betrayal she had never seen before, deep and as all consuming as love. She stopped herself saying his name.

"Raoul." Christine snapped in fear as Raoul striked, his sword sharp and deadly in one hand, Erik leaping back. Hatred, sickening and twisting, flicked between the pair as Erik fought against the light symbol of his own darkness, Raoul against the man who challenged his own superiority. They spat at one another and swiped with their swords, Raoul with the practice of a professional fencer, Erik with the malice of someone who practiced alone.

"Stop it!" Christine shrieked, jumping into the fray, onto Raoul's arm with eyes begging and heart pounding. "Please, Raoul. Stop!"

Erik backed away a step, unwilling to risk harming Christine, and Raoul saw his chance.

Throwing Christine back to fall heavily against a tombstone, he snapped forward before Erik could blink, and had the sword at his throat. Erik was taller, she noted absently, her mind emptying with pure heart-stopping fear.

"No." She whispered, too afraid to even voice herself. "_No." _

With a surge of strength she threw herself forward, throwing her weight at Erik who, caught in surprise, fell heavily, away from the sword.

"Not like this." She hissed, climbing to her feet and glaring at her fiancée.

A low chuckle sounded behind her, and she knew that if she turned around she would catch one wry eye, see his smirk. How a man could be so smug after being knocked down by a woman was beyond her. She swept forward before they could fight again, her skirts sweeping the floor in a drama that pleased her as she vaulted up onto the white horse, kicking in her heels so Raoul was forced to chase her rather than kill a man while he was down.

She didn't turn around. But she knew he was watching as the hero swept away the damsel on a pure white horse. She bit back tears, the brand of his lips on her neck still burning.

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The altar was small, a tiny prie dieu for any of the huge number of people living within the opera. A small stained glass window burned brightly with rare Parisian sun. Christine had her eyes turned upwards into the face of the virgin Mary, her hands crossed neatly on her lap where she knelt, waiting. Waiting for what, she wasn't sure. But waiting.

She wanted to pray, but she couldn't. The cold, beautiful, unforgiving face was blank and smiling like a mask, the child in her arms fat and revoltingly appealing. Instead she contented herself with looking, thinking, wondering where he was. She wasn't confused anymore. Before she could even turn her head, she knew he was there.

"You've decided." He whispered, his voice heavy, carefully disguised. She shut her eyes briefly, unable to face him. Coward. She just nodded, her hair shifting heavily against her shoulder blades.

"Him."

She nodded again, her eyes fixed on the shadows before her.

He remained silent.

"Erik-"

"Don't." He said harshly. She heard his footsteps as he paced behind her. She bit back words she desperately wanted to say, twisting her fingers.

"You are aware, I assume, that he does not love you." Never had his voice been so cold when speaking to her. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Yes." Her voice was a reluctant whisper.

"Nor do you love him."

She stiffened without replying. One hand ghosted along her bare shoulder, an apology, a goodbye. She shook her head.

"You know I love you." Erik whispered brokenly, his forehead falling forward to rest against her bare neck. He must be knelt behind her. "Say the word and I'll take you away from this."

Christine shut her eyes, letting the tears begging to drop down her pale cheeks fall, holding herself still to stop herself touching him. She remained silent.

"I'll give you everything I have."

_Not enough. _The words reverberated around the little room though neither spoke, and he flinched against her. He sagged, something sounding suspiciously like a sob escaping his lips in a burst of warmth on her bear skin. Christine fought to breath evenly. She was breaking him, and it was killing her.

They stayed in silence, his arms around her waist, kneeling like broken puzzle pieces; he clutching her like a drowning man, she stoically turned away, tears where he would never see them.

"Of course," His voice was bitter, a hushed whisper. He sounded like he was about to say more, but footsteps approached the door, gunshots in the silence. He flinched again, his hands running from her waist, over her breasts, to her throat where they remained, her skin burning. His lips touched her ear. "This isn't over, darling."

And he was gone.

She let herself sob, then, tears racking from her body harder than she had ever felt them, as she pressed her palms against the stone floor and howled. She knew it was the right thing to do, and yet it felt so, so wrong. The footsteps were growing louder. She settled herself back, forcing her tears back behind a show-girl composure, her heart screaming.

The door creaked open and someone shuffled in, obviously trying to be quiet. Christine turned her dry face, a mask of falsity painted in her every movement, to see who had entered. Raoul paced, where he had paced seconds before, his hands running through dark hair.

"Raoul, I'm frightened." Her voice was plaintive, and the most honest she had ever been with him. She wanted him, for the first time, to understand. To draw her into his arms and let her forget, with the scents of sunshine and be the link to her childhood that she craved. To be the man she had chosen. But when she looked up she did not see the boy with impish gaze and too-big clothing who had snubbed her, but rather a man in a fashionable suit, his eyes warm with desire and concern. And something else. This was a man with a plan; and she knew what it would entail. Christine clutched at her skirts, eyes widening into a frantic desperation. "Don't make me do this."

Raoul's expression froze over and he approached, in anger or concern she did not know, jerking herself to her feet pleadingly.

"Raoul," She whispered, "Raoul he frightens me."

The lie was all she could think of. He remained silent.

"Raoul don't put me through this ordeal. He'll take me."

The note of hope in her voice was missed, buried beneath the thickness of her tears and the desperation not to ever have to see him again. Raoul wrapped his arms around her, in a soothing gesture that directly fought with what he was doing; tormenting her with the man she had sworn to herself to leave. She ignored him, concerned that he wasn't speaking, wasn't jumping in with endless words as he usually did. Dark eyes, heated, in the rain. Hot lips on cold skin. Low sobs in a darkened room.

"He'll always be there singing songs in my head." She whispered, more to herself than to him, the notes to _Masquerade _swelling painfully in an orchestra in her head. _Hide your face and the world will never find you._

"You said yourself he was nothing but a man." Raoul said quietly, almost scornfully, shrugging her concerns away as though they were childish fears, as he had that night of their engagement when he didn't even believe the phantom existed.

"Am I to risk _my _life to win a chance to _live?_" Christine snapped, stepping forward to jab a finger into his chest. "Do you not understand? This is a man who once inspired my voice, and you ask me to betray him? He was my everything, and do you give me any _choice?_"

"He kills without a thought." Raoul's lips were thin and bloodless at her declaration; face pale at the thought of his fiancée having any involvement with any other man. "While he's alive he'll haunt us 'til we're dead. Of course, he must be eliminated."

"I know I can't refuse." Christine shrieked at him, turning so he wouldn't see the raw pain on her face as she contemplated what she would do to him. Break him, tear his heart and then stamp on it, with a seeming smirk as she allowed her lover to orchestrate it all. "I wish I could." She added in a small whisper, something he wouldn't hear. Something for Erik.

"Christine—"

"Oh God, if I agree what horrors—" She sobbed, breaking off, images of him in his lair, alone and silent with no music to comfort him, left by mother, father, friends and now her to rot, just because of his circumstances.

"Christine, don't think that I don't care," Raoul flicked his eyes over her tearful appearance uncomfortably, his mind already full of plans she was interrupting, "But… every prayer rests on you now. This won't work without your cooperation."

"Cooperation?" She echoed, shocked at the clinical word. Was that all? Cooperate? To ruin a man, all she had to do was cooperate? Raoul apparently thought mollifying a screaming woman was simple, as he pulled her into yet another warm embrace, before leaving her trembling, and alone. Christine wondered if he'd listened.

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The wings were screamingly full. Erik watched, amused, as actors, dancers, singers and crew, with the odd policeman, streamed around him in the frantic rush of curtain time. He hadn't bothered hiding, rather relying on the frantic nature of backstage to conceal him as he lounged in the shadows, eyes gleaming with anger. The first few acts of his opera passed seamlessly, with a deaf ear. He knew this opera was awful, but in a moment of self-destruction that were becoming more and more frequent, it amused him to throw them something terrible to flounder upon at his own whim.

That same self-destruction was what seemed to be forcing him to take up his place at Christine's side, despite her obvious unwillingness. Erik knew her well, better than she herself knew, which is what kept him sane. She was scared. She wanted safety and, by default he was not… _safe._

At that thought he sent a passing dancer a wolfish grin that had her blushing wildly without thought.

He allowed himself to dwell in thought for a while, watching. Madame Giry nodded at him respectfully, her eyes shielded. Christine passed him unseeingly, her eyes blank, her face pale. He watched her, concerned. She looked dead, like she'd given up; a look she hadn't had since she was ten years old. A look he was familiar with himself.

But now was not the moment. Now was the time for his final plans. Erik lowered his eyes to the score in his hand, one that had been torn from the original _Don Juan Triumphant. _And he smirked, despite the fears that welled up within him.

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The second he strode onto stage, she knew it was him. Piangi—laughable. Erik moved with liquid grace. His voice was steel, his voice was velvet. It wrapped around her and cushioned her fall from grace. She choked, one hand to her abdomen, the bones of her yellow corset digging into the soft flesh beneath her ribs. The audience melted in a sea of colour, unimportant, unalive. A painting, flat and winking on a wall. This wasn't going according to plan.

"Past the point of no return," he paused, challenge in his eyes as he sang, a quirk on his lip which echoed a smirk. He didn't think she could do it. He didn't think she would. She had, afterall, chosen _Raoul._ "No backward glances."

She did glance back, to see the musicians continuing as though nothing had happened. They looked somewhat startled at the impromptu song, but the conductor always enjoyed a challenge and they fit molded themselves to his song like velvet around a diamond. A hand ghosted along her jaw, bringing her face back around to face his, only to find him several paces away, commanding the stage in a way unparalleled.

Snapshots shot through her mind as fingertips fluttered away, warm, teasing. Them, together. Candles iridescently fickering with enough brightness to drown the sun, melting away into a nothingness which would be as dark as the shadow of the moon. A boat, a man. A hand on her waist, skin on skin. Curls of her own hair shadowing his chest as she moved above him. Cigarette smoke and roses. Snow above Paris and rain slicked cobbles.

His eyes brightened with knowing.

"Our games of make-believe are at an end."

She wanted to shake her head, demand he release her from whatever spell he had over her. The spell he had had for ten years, that kept her yearning for more than she should She wanted to slap herself, wring her hair, scream. She wanted—she wanted— _Father forgive me._

"Past all thoughts of _if _or _when,_"

The disdain lingered in her mind, a chorus fitting with her heartbeat, thrumming through her pulse, compelling her to watch him as he stalked closer like a cat. What did he want? What did_ she_ want? A voice screamed in her head to _run, _run before she was over her head, run before she did something she'd regret. She'd _chosen._

"No point resisting."

Could he hear her thoughts? He already knew the inside of her mind as well as an intimately walked hallway. He answered her every call, lit on every cause for lighting. The fire to her ice, before she even knew she was burning.

"Abandon thought and let your dreams decide."

"No." She sucked in a breath of air. The word was a whisper, too low for even herself to hear above the music, above him. It was a plea, a cry for help from her own indecision. Raoul was watching. But _his_ eyes flashed to hers, dark and burning from behind his black mask as hard as obsidian. She searched what she could see of his face desperately, clutching at anything, but his mouth was soft and forming notes rough with emotion and smooth has honey. He'd heard her, but he knew her. He stepped closer, winks of satisfaction and vulnerability alternating in his pupils.

"What raging _fire _shall flood the soul?"

His hands were on her. She nearly shuddered with want as his arms encircled her tight enough to cut off her breathing, one hand warm around the taught line of her throat. Her back was pressed against his chest, her scanty stage dress becoming inconsequential as the heat of his body leaked through to warm her. She found she couldn't care, her head thrown back against his shoulder, a bubble of uncertainty rapidly depleting. The voice squeaking _no _at the back of her mind was stifled as his hand heated from her throat to her jaw, to her cheeks, caressing her mouth as the other rose to ghost her shoulder. The audience breathed, a choked breath of the voyeur as they found themselves unable to tear their eyes away. Rain slicked cobbles, her legs around his hips, her back against a cold carriage. Lips on her throat.

"What rich desire shall unlock its door? What sweet seduction lies before us?"

He drifted his hands away from her, snapping his body away and dipping his head to watched the curve of her waist to breasts and hip as she shivered before his gaze, dizzy with music and desire. His lips ran from her shoulder to hand, biting her knuckle softly, his eyes never leaving hers. She wanted to moan. But he would stop his song and it would be her turn. If she failed- she wouldn't be- she couldn't-

"Past the point of no return."

Gently, he tugged her forward by the hand, his other outspread towards the audience as smoothly as a man who sung before them every day. They watched him, eyes glazed with hunger, gripping hands and thighs and pearls. She stared out at them, knowing her expression matched theirs, fingers taut and breathing thrumming under collar bones.

"Please." She half sobbed, her lips barely moving. He snapped his face to her, calm but relentless, determinately moving on with his song to the conclusion she knew she would face readily, wantonly.

"The final threshold."

He whispered it and sang it in equal measure. The audience caught their breath in wonder at the raw need of his voice, while she turned her face in sudden, cold, stage fright. He was warning her.

"What warm unspoken secrets shall we learn beyond the point of no return?"

He wanted her decision. Her _final _decision. She knew he wouldn't ask again, that he would disappear.

A note of silence, pure as a bubble of water, filled with rainbows and fear hung suspended in the spellbound hall as the pair on stage stared at one another. He was still, not a muscle moving as he waited. She was breathing fast, hands fluttering, eyes feverishly roaming his yet her body turned towards someone in the stands.

Truth.

"You have brought me," She nearly wept with relief when her voice sprung from her as high and clear as usual, "to that moment when words run dry. To that moment where speech disappears into silence. Silence."

His eyes flashed with amusement.

_Cheat _he mouthed at her across the stage, a smirk of pride hovering on his lip. She straightened her bare shoulders at the look, a flash of heat giving her a surge of clarity and confidence as she stalked back towards him, enjoying the surprise in his gaze where before uncertainty had her crippled.

"In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenseless and silent," It wasn't a whisper, it wasn't straightforward. It was a croon which caused him to breath in sharply, but disguised beneath layers of opera which concealed bare want from the audience. They shuffled. It was honesty.

"Now I am here with you, no second thoughts. I've decided." He raised an eyebrow. "Decided."

The world stopped. They stared at one another. She had decided… she had—but-

"Past the point of no return"

She turned, slowly, away from the audience, towards the fire which burned desperately at the back of the stage. He turned with her, hypnotized by her eyes which flashed with sudden and unexpected confidence, the skin which glittered in hellfire and stage light.

"No going back now."

She wanted to be closer to him. He stepped towards her just as she did, him. Perfectly timed, a dance of want and need, a song of decision and hardened detachment from reality.

"Our passion-play has now at last begun. When will the blood begin to race? When will the flames at last _consume _us?"

Erik remained still, face still, eyes burning on her with a want so fierce it was a wonder she didn't melt. He was taut from head to toe, muscles tight so as to hold himself still. She watched him, delight in her own power leading to a recklessness she might have once regretted.

"Past all thoughts of right or wrong,"

Tease.

"One final question!"

He tensed.

"How long are we to wait before we're one?"

He stifled a groan, not wanting to shatter the perfection of the music. She stood, fearless in fire as a medieval princess, consumed by her own lust and straight as an arrow with an imperious turn to her head. He stood, black against the red, fists clenched, his soul burning. This was more than he had ever dreamed, singing with her. It joined their souls.

"Past the point of no return,"

The shouted together, tightly laced not to clash, no need to even concentrate on the words they automatically threw away together, his presence full in her mind and she in his.

"The final threshold,"

No warning this time, no need for it. She matched him, a pillar of brilliance in space which fizzed like a firework.

"The bridge is being crossed so stand and watch it _burn._"

They gasped together, their breath short, their voices an effortless harmony in the red-hot hall. Their eyes met. He stalked forward as she did their hands grasping through bare air for the other, he clasping her hips and she his waist as they pressed closer in agony. He spun her, hands on her, running from throat to waist in a movement unbearably heated on her breasts. Their voices climaxed as they thrust apart, crackling in the comparative gloom of the brilliantly lit stage.

"We've passed the point of no return."

Silence.

They breathed hard.

They watched one another.

His eyes shifted from hard to soft in an instant as he saw the tight lust on her face break into something else. Her eyes darted to the box where he knew her fiancee sat, quick as thought. Violent hatred towards him roughened his voice into that of sadness as he watched her stand alone in the darkness, a shape, atoms of brilliance and perfection. She had chosen. But it was still unclear as to which she had.

"Say you'll share with me one love,"

The audience shifted. She shifted. Lust and love were two very different topics, the change so sudden he could see the dizziness in her expression.

"One lifetime. Lead me, save me from my _solitude_."

His voice cracked for the first time in his life, hitching as he watched her, desperation feeding something warmer than lust. They were still close enough to touch. She leaned her head back as his pressed his kiss into the base of her throat, beneath the heavy fall of her hair.

"Say you want me with you here beside you."

Her beautiful face turned up to him like a flower, eyes glittering with tears. She knew a pledge when she heard one. Flashes broke through both their minds, melded. A woman's face, distorted with memory, hatred and fear overcoming natural love in the rain as she left her baby at the carnival; brown eyes wide with fear, a metal pipe hard on his back, cold uncaring emptiness where he didn't realize something was missing. The darkness, the silence, broken only by his music.

"_Anywhere _you go let me go too."

She watched him, terrified, hot, cold. This brilliant man, who sang with enough raw emotion for ten, who had the power to command, who held a room in pure hypnosis. A man himself terrified, alone, masked with confidence. A man who threw himself in supplication at her feet with a devotion that petrified her.

"_Christine"_

He used her name for the first time, and it broke something in her. Like that day in the rain, love dripped from every syllable as his eyes burned. He hurled her name like a spell into the room, into the heavens, where it lay suspended in stars and encircled by planets, pulsing. A talisman. A gift.

"That's all I ask of—"

He broke off as she reached forward.

His eyes darkened.

Without thinking, terror at the depth of his emotion, at the magnitude of his adoration, spurred her actions. All she knew is that for one small, infitacimal millisecond, she wanted to break his attachment to her, for his sake.

So she did the unforgiveable, and lifted his mask.


	11. 10) Seraphs Might Despair

_**Well this was rather amusing to write. I don't know if we're nearing the end or I'll continue… we'll see! In the meantime, new **__**competition**__** I can't believe I've never done. If you can find where I've been getting the chapter quotes, and the story title from you can demand a oneshot. Good luck!**_

The tableau on stage was a delight, it was generally agreed. Murmers passed up and down the rows; raised eyebrows and smiles of amazement at the pair on stage. Not only were their voices flawless—but their _acting. _And the _presence _of the masked man. Piangi had never been better!

And then Christine Daae lifted his mask. The prima donna they had so come to love lifted the mask of Don Juan, her eyes glittering with the false tears of the actress, her entire frame heaving with sobs. Superb acting. Absolutely superb. And the emotion! It was tangible! The regret could be tasted, even without knowing what it was for. The second her fingers touched his face she seemed to jerk like a puppet, as though she was trying to stop herself from doing it as she did so. As though she realised in the split second that she did it what a mistake she was making. She pulled her hand back, violently, as though disgusted it belonged to her.

Sadly, her fist clenched the mask. Small, black, innocuous.

The audience murmured that they had never seen acting so real, so convincing. She _looked _tortured. Why, she looked as though she wanted to dash her brains out! Amazing!

And then their attention shifted to Don Juan.

That was when the screaming began.

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That hand, it couldn't belong to her. Slim, with the glitter of a bracelet, pale. Long fingers for piano-playing with the scar of a burn on the heel. It touched Erik's face in a caress, her mind reeling. She was consumed with the need to wipe that hopeless adoration from his eyes. It wasn't right that Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, should be so weakened by her. She was unworthy, she had chosen another. She chose safety and the mundane over magic and music and screaming desire. She didn't _deserve _him.

And her hand longed to prove it.

Before she knew it, it was on his mask.

She snapped back to herself too late, her mind screaming at her to stop, to still her hand, before she broke him more than she had. But it was too late, the screams surrounded her, and his black eyes were incredulous.

She gasped, eyes widening, her soul dropping from her feet as she realised the magnitude of what she had done. It was all there- in his eyes. Fear, deeper than any fear she had ever known, crossed in face in a flicker of pure, heart-stopping terror that distorted his face as the world saw him for what he was for the first time since he had cowered in a cage, beaten and six years old. He forgot her a moment, as his face jerking towards the audience like a caught rabbit as they denounced him as a devil where, hidden, he had been a god.

His eyes found hers again, pleading, as his soul shattered. Christine had done it. She had done what his own mother, beating him as a baby and leaving him in the rain with strangers had not. She had done what his owner with his whip had not. She had done what the cage and darkness had not. She had done what the twenty years of solitude underground had not.

She had broken him. He had trusted her, for the first time in his life, and he had trampled it. He had opened himself, and she had shoved a knife into his heart.

Christine reached towards him again without even realising, the mask in it as she tried to offer it again, frantic as she panicked completely. But it was too late. Something hard stole over Erik's expression, an abyss which rejected everything. It rejected the cigarettes and candles in a darkened chamber where they knelt, knee to knee. The snow on the roof, his cloak about her shoulders and crystals melting beneath their hands. Laughter and shyness and wry embarrassment. Music and nightmares. Heated kisses in the rain. Her voice.

All died. He had cut himself off from her, so in _pain_ that his mind rejected her.

"Erik." She choked, trying to press his mask back into his hands, trying to push all her sorrow, her apology, all her disgust with herself into her eyes as she clutched at the widening gap between their souls. "Erik, Erik, I'm sorry. Oh God."

But his eyes were not on her, they were on the audience. His face was vulnerable, and suddenly, through her haze of tears, she could see the bewilderment of a child in his countenance; the shock that the world could be so cruel for so little. And then he steeled himself, and something else crossed his face. Something dark.

"No! _Erik _it was my _fault."_ Christine leapt towards him, tears streaming down her face as she fought against him. He had never used his full strength on her, and she was bewildered when she felt she had run headlong into a steel wall as he held her against his side coldly, his fingers darting to the knife he had tied to his belt. He cut a cord.

Then everything happened very quickly.

A blur, the jerk in her abdomen that said she was falling, a flash and screams. She shut her eyes sickeningly, burying her eyes into Erik's side automatically, breathing in his scent comfortingly despite everything. And then she was being dragged along, tucked under his arm as though she was nothing more than a doll. Cold air. Dampness. Confusion. She supposed she had passed out, the pressure too much, what she had done getting the better of her.

When she was aware, she was in the boat. The ground rocked beneath her, eerily silent given the noise just minutes previously. Or was it hours? In any case, the crossing was fast, much faster than the first time he had drawn her across the lake. Then, he had reacted to her as though she had been a stranger; prey to his melodramatic image, with the candles passing slowly as he sang. Now, the silence was oppressive, his rowing inhumanly fast as they pushed towards his lair.

She twisted, eyes widening as she caught sight of him. No mask covered his face, no dark wig concealed the lighter, shaggier head of hair. His cloak was absent, and he shivered in the chilled air of the passage with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. The _Don Juan Triumphant_ costume was hardly his normal style, thick boots and dark breeches, more casual than she had ever seen him. And his eyes—

That hint of betrayal, a leakage he could not quite hide, burned brightly.

She watched him until they reached the far shore, silently, slowly loosening her heavy curls from their pins. She caught his eyes darting to her as dark tendrils fell to her collar bones in heavy swathes. She never took her eyes from him. When the boat bumped against the stone of his lair, she waited, back straight, scanty costume-skirts arranged as modestly as possible around her legs, her eyes fixed on his. He swept past her, offering his hand with exaggerated, sarcastic courtesy.

"Miss Daae, if you would be so kind." His tone was cold, and Christine couldn't help but flinch.

"Thank you, _monsieur_ _le fantome._" She replied almost viciously, throwing his public nickname at him to spite his using hers.He glared at her icily, stalking away from her towards his organ, his shoulders stiff. She found he refused to face her for long, and felt another stab of regret.

"Why?" He hissed, his voice rougher than usual, his face turned towards his music rather than her. Christine watched him, edging closer with slow, measured footsteps. When she was right behind him and he still hadn't turned, she tentatively reached out that treacherous hand to touch the thin linen of his shirt. His muscles bunched automatically and he turned, a whirlwind of sudden fury, to grasp her bare shoulders in hard hands, his face very close to hers.

Christine gasped in surprise at his sudden proximity, eyes widening.

"_Why?_" He shouted, louder this time, shaking her slightly. "_Why _would you send me back into _hell?_ You, more than anyone, understand. How could _you _be so cruel?"

With every word his eyes begged more for an explanation, his voice becoming more heated, fingers gripping harder. When she flinched in pain he released her as though her skin was made of flame, a complicated web of emotions crossing his face. Dark blood swelled beneath the skin where his fingers had dug into her.

She still hadn't said a word, merely watched his face. He flickered under her gaze, fingers fluttering as though he longed to hide himself from her.

"What?" He hissed, finally, fingers cupping his cheek. Erik seemed about to say more when Christine reached forward to cover his mouth with one long finger, sweeping his face with a searing gaze.

"I've never been allowed to see you as you are." She murmured quietly.

He froze beneath her hand, fingers still digging into his own face as he watched her incredulously. Then, something like bitter amusement crossed his face.

"Enjoy the freak show." His lips moved beneath her finger, curling into a mocking kiss that made the her skin tingle nonetheless, as he lowered his hand with a showman flourish.

"Don't be absurd." She whispered, moving her hand to caress the side of his face he normally concealed. It was perfectly horrible, it was true. The skin was twisted and shiny, like a burn, discoloured and an enflamed pink. She ran her palm down it, frowning as she felt the familiar sharp cheekbone, the dimple of his wry smile, the muscles of the nuances of his expressions that she knew so well.

He was a statue. She dropped her hand when she had felt him to her fill, aware that his muscles quivered with discontent and humiliation.

"We all have our masks to bear, Erik." Her voice was a lingering whisper as she turned and strolled towards the inner living quarters of his lair. She knew he followed, even if she couldn't hear his footsteps, as she simply began to undo her corset strings. When she turned, his eyes were narrowed in confusion.

"What I find refreshing about you, _mon ange, _is that yours is so literal that it is immediately evident that beneath that infernal piece of fabric, you soul is as unconcealed as a saint's."

_Look around there's another mask behind you._

"Everyone else has a figurative mask, a mask easily malleable to their interests, leaving them corrupt and dishonest. Including me."

His eyes widened as she pulled her corset over her head.

Next, she loosened the ribbons of the chemise she wore.

"What—" His voice was entirely open, his anger forgotten, the betrayal and consuming hatred at the world silenced in a moment of pure shock.

"I saw beneath your mask, it's only fair that I return the same in kind." A blush slowly worked over her cheeks as she slid the garment down her shoulders, overriding every instinct she had, just because he had done the same. He had let her _touch _his face, something so beyond the realms of his comfort zone that she felt compelled to show the same trust. Erik was before her in an instant, his eyes furious as he held her clothing over her breasts.

"You do not need to, purely for guilt." She hid a relieved smile as his voice returned to that she knew well; her Erik, who protected her. Even if his voice was a little rough.

"Not for guilt." She said softly, her chin high, her eyes fixed on his lips. Erik stared at her, jaw working. She was a million things fracture in his eyes. "Please."

Uncertainly, Erik shook his head, eyes flicking from her eyes to her mouth as he tried to back away. Christine slid her hands around his wrists, pleadingly.

"Erik." She whispered, "I wanted to stop you from loving me. I wanted an excuse to run. But I give up, I'm tired of doing the right thing. I'm tired of being Little Lottie, whose only excitements are deciding if she's fonder of dolls or shoes. I want you. I want _music_."

Erik looked down at her, face inscrutable. His wrists were warm beneath her palms, pulse fluttering too fast. He looked lost. Before, anger fuelled him. What was there now?

She rocked towards him, tears welling up in the back of her throat. The smell of roses wrapped around her intoxicantly, wrapping her up in her childhood and her present with the comforting sense of security and the fire of desire. She fought back a wave of warmth that rushed to abdomen as the heat of his body radiated from his thin shirt through her chemise, to brush her bare skin beneath. With a sharp breath she stepped forward, pressing herself against him and resting her face in the crook of his neck, her arms wrapped around his neck to entwine in his hair.

Almost unconsciously, his arms slid around her waist and held her close, his face pressed into her curls.

"Christine-" He murmured, voice breaking slightly, "You chose. You chose _him._"

"Devil take the hindmost." She whispered into his skin, quivering with fear that after all this, he would reject her. Christine knew she deserved it. After a lifetime of devotion to her, all she had done was draw him along and show his deepest insecurity to the world, ruining his position in his home, the opera. But she _wanted- _she needed-

Dizzy, she buried her face deeper into him, her breath coming fast.

"You're a manipulative-"

"Don't." She gasped, jolting in his embrace. She looked up at him, shocked, only to find his tortured expression. The sudden and obvious role reversal suddenly struck her and she became overcome with tenderness for the man beneath her palms, replacing the usual awe.

That was when she understood. She thought she'd shaken to idea of the angel from her mind when she had accepted him as Erik rather than the Phantom. She thought she understood. But no. He wasn't Erik; Erik was just a name, a name given to the entity of the man who gave her music and kept her safe. He was something nameless, a mix of fear and wants and desires and love, wrapped in roses and snow: nameless and _hers._

Without waiting for him to pull away again, she reached up onto tiptoes to close the distance between their lips.

_**CDECDECDECDECDECDECDECDECDEC DECDECDECDECDECDECDECD**_

Erik watched her as she pulled her corset over her head, with something paralyzing. A jolt ran through his nerves like an electric shock, as countless fantasies rammed into his brain like a freight train. He shut his eyes sharply to stop himself doing something he knew he'd regret when he was in the right mind-set, before cracking them open to find her undoing her chemise. Was she trying to _kill _him now she'd already destroyed everything _else?_

He lurched forward with none of his usual grace as she began sliding it down her creamy shoulders, baring her collar-bones and graceful sweep of her neck. He yanked it upwards, breathing fast, resolutely glaring into his eyes rather than looking anywhere else.

_The same in kind._ Was that all this was? A debt to be paid? A way to sweep all they had shared beneath the rug in the name of _fairness? _He had no doubt she would leave without a second glance, perhaps she merely wanted to avoid a lifetime of guilt. _Not for guilt. _What for, then? The pleasure of control? The delight of playing with the mouse before the cat returned to be fed cream?

_Devil take the hindmost. _Indeed, and he would be he falling short, he would be the one left to pick up the pieces in her burning wake. He would be the flash and blindness after the meteor.

"You're a manipulative-" _bitch _his subconscious whispered, but he couldn't make himself say it. Not to his Christine. He tensed as she looked up at him, her blue eyes wide with tears and desperate guilt at his comment; fear that he might be right, assurance that he was not. He wanted to take it back, he wanted to take away that haunted look in her eyes. He wanted—he wanted to kiss her, more than anything he had ever wanted another thing in his life. He would even let her go, he would do anything, he would go to hell and back for her, if she would let him kiss her.

As though she had read his mind, she reached up, stretching the taut skin of her neck as her lips found his.

Erik's world fractured into shattered glass. Her lips were sweet, like cream and lilies, velvet soft as they claimed his with a passion that surprised him; a passion she usually reserved for singing. He fell into her, grasping her waist tighter as he delved deeper into her mouth, shocked that mere contact could fizz with such bubbling fireworks of longing. She breathed warm comfort into his soul, her teeth and tongue biting and caressing, fingers knotting irresolutely in his collar. This was beyond anything he'd felt. Beyond those first kisses with Antoinette, beyond _anything. _Without a thought he lifted her, walking several paces to press her against the wall so he could be closer to her, lips still on hers, separating as they breathed raggedly.

"Erik—" She whispered, the movement of his name on her lips as they pressed against his wildfire that melted into his already heated veins. "Erik, I—"

"Christine!"

They froze. Her fingers were in his hair, chest heaving, legs entwined with his as she used the wall for support. His arms were tight on her waist, dragging her upwards onto his chest to allow him full access to her mouth. Erik slowly turned his head towards the rest of his lair, his face tortured.

"You _must_ be joking."


	12. 11) The Mortal of his Strain

_**Well none of you got the competition last chapter. Shame on you all. The answer was Childe Harold by Lord Byron you peasants. ;) JOKES HUGS AND COOKIES for you all.**_

His lips were heated, blood boiling beneath their velvet surface as he assaulted her mouth with a passion she returned despite her initial surprise. Glacial, burning, fire and ice, she found herself clinging to him desperately, fighting every social convention that had been hammered into her, every lucid thought, all warred with a burning _need. _Her fingers knotted in his shirt, desperate to have it away so she could feel his skin on hers, even as he pushed her backwards against the cold, stone wall.

She fought against a moan as his lean body pressed hard against hers, crushing her between hard rock and him, her heated body left no room to breath. Without tearing her lips from his she rocked her legs up to twine with his, panting as he touched her in all the right places.

This was _everything. _Through the fire of her desire she could still feel him, her Erik, fighting against his own instincts just as she was embracing hers.

Raoul; why, he seemed… _laughable. _That first kiss when he proposed, the chaste press of lips on hers, she had actually looked over his shoulder to occupy herself. His tongue had been expert, his mouth-work to the book. Insufferably _dull _in comparison to how natural this felt.

Speak of the devil and he shalt appear.

"Christine!"

Erik pulled away from her with a snap, his dark eyes burning with something that made her shiver, lips swollen from working against hers. She felt her own eyes darken in response as she had to force herself from tugging him back down to her again.

"You have _got _to be joking." He murmured, his voice so_ husky _Christine felt something heavy drop to the pit of her stomach. He stared at her face with a frustration almost too much to bear, before dropping her back onto her feet and turning with a dark, threatening grace.

"Erik-" She moaned, falling back against the wall, skin feeling too-tight.

With one last glance over his shoulder, he devoured her.

"I think, my dear, we have a guest. Perhaps more clothing would be in order."

Christine glanced down at herself, nonplussed, before a blush worked over her cheeks. The chemise had been half-ripped, somehow, sliding down her chest without the ribbons left to hold it up. She waited until Erik had left before racing for a chest in the corner, finding a woman's dress that looked like something someone might dress up in for their own amusement; it was almost bridal. She slid into it as quickly as she could, fingers shaking on the ties of the corset as she heard male voices in the other cavern. She wanted to run straight out, but to rush out of his bed-chambers doing up her corset…

When she was properly attired, she sped out, her breath coming fast.

"Sir!" Erik was calling down, lounging unconcerned on the bare rock with one arm behind his head, and his booted foot languishing to hand over the edge as he watched, amused, as Raoul fought to gain entry into his lair. "This is an _unparalleled _delight, to have the _Vicomte de Chagny _no less, in my humble abode."

"How _dare _you steal my beloved." Raoul screamed, his voice heightening almost girlishly in his indignation. He looked scared, his boyish face pale, and Christine couldn't stop a pang of sympathy for her childhood friend. He caught sight of her over Erik's shoulder, his pale eyes shooting wide. "Free her!"

Erik shot Christine a lazy smile over his shoulder, but she could see his tension; the overt fear that she would take his side.

"You have truly made me night." He murmured in Raoul's direction, but his eyes were on her. She swallowed, lifting a hand to press into her chest, before glancing up at her fiancée. He stared at her desperately.

"Let her go! I love her! Does that mean nothing to you?" His voice was scornful, and Christine jumped. This was the first time she had heard him say he loved her. And he yelled it in disgust and anger at a man he believed beneath him due to station. She gaped at him, before glancing at Erik, whose eyes were narrowed on the boy. His eyes slowly trailed back to Christine, his eyes begging her to tell him what she wanted him to do.

"Your lover makes a passionate plea."

Her eyes widened.

"He's not my lover!" She said in shock, her arms crossing over her tightly laced bodice, "he's only my fiancée."

At that Erik tossed back his head and chuckled, the sound of his pure amusement echoing around the cave. It was the first time she had heard him laugh without bitterness and, unconsciously, her lips tilted up in response.

"If you were my fiancée, my darling, you wouldn't be able to walk." His dark eyes winked at her, glittering with amusement as she snorted at his pure vulgarity. Raoul looked shocked, as though someone had slapped him, something like disgust edging into his eyes. No, something like that would never occur to him. Sullying was for whores, not wives. Wives were for clinical child-rearing, then years of silence beneath the sheets.

"Show some _compassion._" He said, his voice a horrified whisper. Erik snorted again, tearing his eyes from Christine to raise one eyebrow at the young man. Young, handsome, rich; engaged to Christine, in the public eye.

"How amusing that you think you know anything of compassion." He smiled wryly, "Besides, the world's shown no compassion to me. _Passion _on the other hand." His eyes drifted back to the woman at his side, her lips swollen and eyes not meeting his in case she should break into a fit of tears or giggles. This was the moment, the moment she would have to decide once and for all.

"Let me see her." Raoul demanded, making Christine flinch with the abrasively upper class drawl.

"Am I stopping you? Be my guest. _Sir._"

The grating clattered upwards, rusted and dark in the gloom, the pulleys silent as they pulled it away from the pale face of her apparent beloved.

"Welcome." His voice caressed the word darkly, making Christine shiver as the hot bud burst again in her lower stomach. She clenched her hands tightly behind her back, watching as her world fell apart.

_Decide. Decide. Safety. Uncertainty. Coherence. Uncertainty. Money. Uncertainty. Cleanliness. Uncertainty. Light. Dark. Decide. For god's sake decide!_

"What did you do to her?" Raoul asked, his eyes darting between his fiancée, and her captor. Christine suddenly wondered what he would do if she said he had taken her. Would he accept someone sullied as his wife, or turn her away? The curiosity was too much, suddenly, the test. She needed to know. Before Erik could say another word she allowed herself to drop to her knees and covered her face.

"I didn't _want _to but he's so much _bigger _than me and—and—what if I'm pregnant? Oh God." She allowed herself to break into heavy sobs, behind closed hands. Silence greeted her outburst and she peeked between fingers to watch.

Her heart stuttered. Betrayal shone from both faces. Raoul looked like she had expected, she noted with dismay, his face paling into something like judgement, something disgustingly filled with blame and anger that she would _dare _lie with anyone—even if it was against her will. She knew then.

But worse was Erik. She knew what he though, with her suddenly dropping to her knees and blaming him. It looked like she was convincing Raoul she was blameless to take her back.

"Delilah." He whispered beneath his breath, eyes filling with bitter tears. Her breath stuttered. He didn't understand. Yet how could he? He was so pure, so untouched by social convention. He was so clean from the world of repression and hatred. He wouldn't never _dream _to think that Raoul would be anything but sympathetic to her predicament.

Before Erik could run, she pulled herself calmly to her feet, dropping her hands and pulling her face into a polite smile.

"Thank you for confirming my beliefs, _Vicomte._ You have made it abundantly clear to me what is important in your life, but I'm afraid that as I am one of far too many, and low down in the list at that; I have to ask you to leave." Anger made her voice quiet and level.

Erik stared at her, confusion written all over his face. Raoul looked from her to him, shock in his every movement.

"You wish to remain… _here?_"

"Why, yes." Christine frowned at him, as though confused why he was so shocked at her wanting to remain in an underground lair with her abductor, alleged rapist and certified murderer. Erik bit back a snort, still eyeing her with confusion.

"_Why?_"

"Because you're dull, shallow and conceited." Christine shrugged. She was so angry, she shook. How _dare_ he. "You told me I was mad. You told me the angel of music was in my head, even when I came to you, terrified. You tortured me into adoration when we were children, you shunned me, you ignored me and my father for years while he died in poverty, as you lived in security; your whole _family_. And then the moment I show an _ounce _of talent, you come to my dressing room and demand I meet with you, taking advantage of our childhood acquaintance. And then you think to remove me from your life through no fault of mine? Well, sir, I bid you _adieu._"

Both men stared at her. Christine held out a hand to Erik, without removing her eyes from Raoul, and he placed the engagement ring in it without another word.

"This ring alone would have saved my father's life as he died of consumption." She shrugged as though it meant nothing and flung it at Raoul. Anger was rising, anger she had suppressed in her father's name, anger she had tried to stop herself feeling.

"Leave." A deadly whisper. "Leave me alone with_ mon ange."_

Raoul looked as though he would argue, but she knew it was a reflex. The bitterness of a man scorned for someone he believed to be beneath him. He knew she was right, but he would never admit it. He would hide it beneath those glittering blue eyes, repress himself, marry another girl. But he would take it out on her, he would be bitter and hate-filled, the seed growing.

He bent low, and picked up the ring, where it glittered like ice in the warm candlelight. It didn't belong. He cast one last, disgusted look around, before turning and gingerly striding away, cringing at the water. He kicked a candlestick on the way, churlishly, with petty delight as it sputtered and died.

"I would have shown you off to the world." He called over his shoulder.

"I don't need, nor want to be shown off to the world, I would rather be kept a private, loved secret." She called after him, her composure melting. "Like a favourite song, _not _a popular, shallow _ballad._"

"Selfish bitch." Raoul had the final word as he stomped away, graceless and angry.

"You—" Christine began, unable to find the words as she sank to her knees, staring blankly as tears overcame her. She lowered her face into her hands, this time sobbing for real. There was silence in the cavern as tears poured down her face, the only break her breathing as it grew more and more uneven. Still silently, a pair of warm arms surrounded and lifted her, carrying her back into the cavern they had been in before they had been interrupted.

She curled up in a ball on his bed, her face buried in soft sheets, fists tangling. He slid on beside her, allowing her to clamber onto his chest and use him for comfort, as he sang nonsense lines to her and combed her curls with patient fingers.

_Hide your face and the world will never find you._

"I hate that song." She murmured much later, when she had calmed down, her face still buried in his chest. He silenced himself, with a long pause, before his voice rumbled beneath her ear again.

"Did you just… _insult_ my music?"

"Shocking, isn't it."

"May I ask _why _before I toss you from my bed?"

The implications of that made her face burn, and he chuckled low in the back of his throat, nearing to a growl.

"It makes me sad—for you."

"That's why I hate yours—what is it… _Think of me?_" His voice was laced with disgust. "You shouldn't have to beg for a mere _thought. _How absurd. The idea of your lowering yourself to that standard makes me hate that boy all the more."

"Well, now we're even." Christine grumbled, amused, as she raised herself on one elbow to look at him. His head was pillowed on one arm, the other playing with her hair, eyes glinting lazily with something decidedly primal hidden in their depths as he hummed. When he caught her looking he bit his lip to silence himself, one eyebrow raised.

"You know what, I think I love you."

Without another word, she slid up the length of his body and kissed him, sliding her hands to press his wrists to the headboard of his bed. He moaned against her lips, a strangled something which could be her name.

"I love you, Erik."

"There isn't time." Erik gasped, rolling over to press her beneath him, so as to free himself. It seemed to have the opposite effect as his full length was pressed harder against her and she gasped at how affected he was, a strangled breath.

"What?" She panted, clenching her fingers pleadingly in the front of his shirt.

"I'm surprised an angry mob hasn't found us already; we must go." He whispered, kissing her feverishly, clever fingers stroking her hair from her face. She wriggled beneath him, desperately.

"How long do we have?"

His sheepish grin suddenly had far too much wolf in it as he swooped down to nibble at her neck.

"Not _nearly_ long enough, darling. We need days."

"But—"

"Incidentally, I suppose this is a bad time to ask you to marry me. What with your just having left your last fiancée with an angry mob knocking at our door."

His mild tone had her shocked for a moment.

"And with your just having killed goodness knows how many people." She added slowly, her eyes burning into his.

"Ah, yes, that too. Well, I accept your faults. You could at least accept my penchant for the dramatic."

"Oh yes, drama is certainly your forte." Christine licked her lips, staring up at his face, which held a deep fear deep behind the mask of his expression. She stroked the distorted side of his face.

Before she could open her mouth, he held a ring beneath his teeth, eyes glittering. It was a simple thing, something he had made himself; a thin band of silver, engraved beautifully with roses. She took it to admire it, her eyes wide.

"Just think, marry me, and you get a ring in the bargain," he swooped down to kiss her lips, "not to mention my delectable good looks in your bed every night. And day. I'm hardly busy under employment."

"You pose a tempting case, _Monsieur le fantome." _Christine murmured, slipping the ring onto her finger. As though on cue, the sounds of angry voices filled the cavern.

"Is that a yes? I hate to rush you-" His eyes were amused as he kissed her again, heated hands sliding up her sides to make her wriggle in delight.

"You con-artist, you timed this on purpose." Christine smirked, rolling them so she straddled him, her eyes curiously on the ring. "Well, you've failed. Your rushing me has led to my coming to a certain _yes _to your proposal. Do try to conceal your disappointment."

"Yes?" Erik whispered, and Christine looked down to see an expression she had never seen on his face before; pure, childish disbelief and love, warring in a heart-breaking concoction.

"I could say no, if you'd prefer."

"I'd have to kidnap you again." Erik growled, rolling them until they fell off the bed with a thud, her clasped above him on his hard chest, their lips warring as their contented sighs distracted them from the growing din of the mob.

When the rattle of metal could be heard, without another word they got to their feet. Erik slid a cloak around her shoulders, trying it beneath her chin with a peck on her lips as he pulled up her hood. Throwing his own cloak on, he glanced around his home, eyes dark and inscrutable.

Without waiting for instruction, Christine darted into the main cavern, grabbing the monkey music box before anyone spotted her and running back to her fiancée, the thing clasped between gentle arms.

"Shall we?" She whispered, fingers twisting the music box into being. The quiet strains of _Masquerade, _a song which usually filled her with bitterness, filled her with an amused detachment as the composer dipped his head to roughly kiss her one last time.

"After you, _mon ange._"

_**Corny right? BUT THEY'RE SO HAPPY! This was so fun to right, and I'm so satisfied right now. It's not even that I wrote it but it's good to get plot frustrations out :D YAY CHRISTINE AND ERIK. Favourite and review, I'd love to know your thoughts, they really do make my day!**_

_**Adieu. SN x**_


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